#not even big words not poetic words or whatever just like. have intention with word choice its literally the whole point

[thesundanceghost]

sometimes. i hate poetry.

[moonsapprentice]

𝔗𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔰

𝔄𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔵𝔢

✩ like every single fanfiction author on the face of tumblr and wattpad would describe, Tord has caramel brown hair. It can really easily get staticky which is funny as fuck when he works on his robots. You’ll walk in and it’s all over the place.

✩ I see people describing his hair as ‘hair horns’ which isn’t wrong per-say, but a better word for it is cowlicks. He literally cannot control them. When he was a teenager he tried so hard to gel them back just to have them spring right back up. Despite that, his hair is actually really silky. He doesn’t like having body hair so he shaves all of it off. Sometimes he leaves a happy trail though.

✩ his eyes are a very striking grey. Depending on lighting they look wildly different. They can look almost white and icy in the light But in the dark they can look menacing and deep.

✩ Tords skin is pretty pale. His skin has warm-neutral undertones. He mostly prefers to be indoors, especially when he’s deep into a project. However when it isn’t above 70 degrees he loves to go out into the woods.

✩ He’s around 6’3 and lean. He’s not very visibly muscular but you can tell he works out. when he’s just out in a t shirt you might catch a glimpse of bicep.

✩ very warm body temperature. Norway is cold, so his body probably just got used to producing heat.

✩ I don’t mean this in a weird way, but he has a pretty face. Just generally nice to look at.

✩ he wears a lot of comfy, casual things. I imagine him as a bit of a gym guy, so sweatpants and T shirts are his go to. And obviously, hoodies.

✩ Tord has scars all over his body.

ℜ𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔠

✩ very romantic

✩ his love languages are physical touch and words of affirmation, with acts of service sprinkled in

✩ Tord never does it infront of people but spews the sweetest most poetic shit you’ve ever heard. Literally pure honey straight out of his mouth. It’s mostly things about your appearance. He has trouble defining his emotions, so instead of opening up and trying to deal with it he says ‘I love you’ a million times a day. It’s the only emotion he truely can explain. He just loves you.

✩ even if he can’t say his emotions, he can sure as hell show them with touch. He can’t say ‘I’m feeling down today’ but he can wrap his arms around your waist from behind and look at you with droopy eyes. He can’t say ‘I feel happy’ so he hugs you tightly and peppers kisses all over your face.

✩ big big big snuggler. Happy to be small or big spoon, whatever it takes to have you close by

✩ a bit random but if you’re into skincare he’d really want you to put a face mask on him. Girl dad style.

✩ loves to kiss on your neck, especially your pulse point. He likes to be reminded you’re alive and always around.

✩ Tord loves receiving kisses on the corner of his mouth and on his neck.

✩ likes a healthy amount of pda. Hugging, kissing, and hand holding are all on the table. As long as the kisses are under five seconds.

✩ gets jealous easily. He trusts you to not do anything but he doesn’t trust other people.

✩ it’s corny, but gun range dates. I CAN’T DENY IT. HE WOULD.

✩ rough and long kisses are his shit. He likes feeling connected to you

✩ 90% of the time has his arm around your waist.

✩ love love loves touching your hair. he’ll touch it at any given chance.

✩ I feel like he’d have a strong sense of smell, so he recognizes your perfume, shampoo, body wash. Everything.

✩ He dates you with the intent of staying together for a long time. He sees you as a spouse rather than just a partner.

✩ loves going to theme parks with you

✩ gives AMAZING massages

✩ would be very happy at the thought of marriage. He doesn’t need a big wedding if you don’t want one, you could even elope. He just wants to feel connected to you.

✩ very tight hugs. Like he’s scared you’ll float away

✩ might want kids to continue his legacy, but a bit iffy on it due to his ‘secret occupation’.

✩ HE WILL GIVE YOU FLOWERS EVERY WEEK NO MATTER WHATT ‼️‼️ NO MATTER IF YOU’RE FIGHTING, HES BUSY, WHATEVER. NOTHING WILL STOP HIM

✩ terrified of losing you

ℜ𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔬𝔪

✩ light sleeper, if he gets any sleep

✩ stays up until 2 - 3am on most nights

✩ despite this, also likes the morning? Both a morning and a night person. Probably gets up around 8 or 9am. Late at night and early in the morning are his most productive hours. During the day he mostly lounges.

✩ smells like smoke, wood, and cologne.

✩ smokes weed very often

✩ loves energy drinks, SEPCIFICALLY white monster.

✩ sweet tooth

✩ but can’t bake for shit.

✩ bites his nails very badly

✩ furrows his brows when he’s focused

✩ crack his back please he needs it.

✩ likes bbq sauce

✩ salmon enjoyer. Specifically smoked

✩ used to dye his hair that dark brown color because he thought it made him look cooler.

✩ mostly listens to metal music and punk rock, but secretly has a vocaloid obsession

✩ his favorite anime is sailor moon because I said so.

✩ would I be wrong if I say he probably has a hatsune miku body pillow

✩ I don’t really think he has a canon family but in my mind I have a whole life story for him. I think that his dad is the OG red army leader, and the main base is in Norway. I don’t think they have a good relationship. His dad often went way to far in teaching him lessons in combat, survival, strategy, etc but they both kind of bonded over engineering. Bonding maybe isn’t the right word because tord definitely does not love his dad, but his father saw that Tord had strengths in robotics and let him persue that. Then bla bla bla Tords the red leader now. If you want you can just ignore this Hc ^^ it just helps me see him as more of a person than a 2D character. I have mini life stories in my head for all the EW characters but Tords is the one I can see the most clearly.

✩ Pau and pat are like brothers to him

✩ wears boxers with hearts on them

✩ also wears Minecraft boxers

𝔑𝔰𝔣𝔴

✩ Any sex position with you in his lap is his favorite. He puts his head in your boobs and holds you still, thrusting up into you. Sometimes he likes to do mating press though.

✩ Tord gets so focused on your pleasure that sometimes he forgets about his own. He’ll go round after round with his head between your thighs.

✩ 100% a switch. He could be on top of you with your legs over his shoulders, or sinking back into the mattress with his eyes rolling back into his head.

✩ lowk a brat

✩ 7 inches when hard. Bends upwards. Shaved

✩ A big kink for dry humping. If you’re in his lap he’ll start grinding on you. He’ll press little kisses on your neck too

✩ goes crazy for some titties

✩ has a lot of crazy ideas, and would love to try them on you if you consent

✩ pretty much has no turn offs. He’s open to try anything you want as long as you’re happy. The only thing he’d never do is hurt you. The other aspects of his life are so violent he doesn’t want to take it to the bedroom

✩ massive oral fixation. He likes having your thumb in his mouth or vice versa depending who’s the top.

✩ he’s very very perverted and very very horny, but he also loves the connection that sex provides. Like yes, he likes boobies at face value. But when he gets into it he really gets into it. Sex is when most of his emotions come out. If he’s had a hard week he may be a bit rougher (obviously with consent). I could also see him as the type to cry a little when he finishes. It’s very rare though.

✩ a high libido. If you’re down he’s down.

✩ if no one else is home he will do it ANYWHERE with you.

✩ will give hickies anywhere. And if you give him one he will show it off proudly

✩ can go about 3-4 rounds average

✩ Lowkey has a breeding kink I can’t lie.

This has been in my drafts for like 3 months so sorry if some parts are a bit ass 🫶 xoxo

[napo-leo-art]

This is an unfinished and largely unedited fic I was writing about Levi's first time with Danny where (for some unknown reason) I decided to make a rule where I could only write it while drunk (idk if this was an exercise in seeing what came out when I was drunk or if it was ~*method writing*~ or what, but idk if I can finish it and I sure as hell cannot read it loool

Anyway Word Count: ~3300 words Rating: E Pairing: Herald/Levi (Sidestep) Warnings: I honestly have no idea, I didn't read it

"So..." Daniel swallows, finally aware that he's standing with a half-naked man on the verge of what might be a breakdown in his arms. "Do... do you want a drink or something?"

Levi wants to laugh. Levi wants a smoke, or a whole pack. He wants to tear Daniel's clothes off and take a bite of him, maybe sink down on his knees and see how far down his throat Daniel-Danny can go.

"Yes," He says in response. It comes out on an exhale, Levi's body kick starting him back to life with a little jolt. His foot sweeps forward and bumps into one of Daniel's, and only then does he realize he was checking for floating. No- Danny-Daniel's really that much taller even with both feet on the ground. Not as tall as Ortega. Neck probably doesn't hurt as much when he bends down to kiss Levi, which he's done more than once since they've got here, but it still makes Levi's stomach clench to think of how they must look together- the Golden Boy and the Has-Been, and at least his long legs keep Sidestep from looking too small in photos. Next to each other, though...

Maybe it would be better to put Danny on his knees. Or on his ass more likely, leaning back onto his hands, head tilted until that bright hair has fallen off of his face, and his face hidden between Levi's thighs...

"Levi?" Fuck, now that he's heard a hint of the accent, he can't let it go in his mind.

"Hm?" He asks, before he thinks about the fact that he's still clinging onto Danny, who has acquiescently kept his arms just as tight- not because he thinks Levi's too weak to hold himself together apparently, but because Danny *likes* it, and he's going to keep doing it as long as Levi actually lets him. Levi feels like he's flicking treats to a dog, which is a mean way to see Danny but god, isn't it accurate?

For a moment he's hit with a poetic thought: that the heat he's feeling is from basking in the warmth of feeling so *loved*.

He squashes that feeling back where it belongs, into the overflowing trashcan of his mind. Fuck, he's so drunk already that Danny might really just be holding him up with his arms.

He doesn't let Danny let him go, no- he holds those arms firmly in place and twists in their hold, turning back towards the kitchen counter and using Danny's glass for the both of them. His own glass lays abandoned on the floor where he *threw* it, and even that didn't scare Danny away. And that means that feeling bad about this really is meaningless, because Danny has already seen at least half of the nasty, ugly, *wrong* things about him, and he's not pulling those arms away or telling Levi to leave. Levi could push him off the deep end right now: '*I'm Retribution, I broke your leg, and I LIKED IT.*'

Instead he fills up Danny's glass, too full, more than is appropriate. But why the fuck do they make whiskey glasses so big if you're not supposed to fill them to the top? Why is Danny's hair so soft if not to grab it, why are his lips so plush if Levi's not supposed to kiss them?

When he spins back around to Danny with drink in hand, he's not sure if the drop in his gut is anxiety or lust. Really could be either. Both. Dr. What's Her Face has heard a little bit about his sex life or lack thereof because *he* brought it up, dumb asshole, and she says that he should take that twist in his gut as the fear it is but really, he hates fear but he's learned to like whatever *this* is.

Danny doesn't ask if Levi's okay, for which he's eternally grateful. Levi can only just *feel* the intention of the question buzzing at the front of Danny's mind.

"Pretty big glass you've got there," He says instead, still unsettled but now at least Levi isn't crying and *oh,* Levi's taking his jaw in his hand and so gently pushing the lip of the glass between Danny's plush ones, pouring a little more into his willing mouth. He's a little clumsy with it, little streams of the expensive stuff seeping past the corners of his mouth. Levi pulls the glass to the side and this time when he pulls Danny down, he licks the liquor from his face. It's so gross. Levi's just gross. He can still feel how he's exciting Danny, so it looks like it's working. He takes a swig from the glass and swallows with effort before his lips meet Danny's again, the smoky-oak flavor passing between them.

"I want *you,*" Levi says then, letting his voice dip into its huskiest tones. Smoking and boozing has fucked up his voice a little, but is that really so bad? He tries to immitate that throat rumble when he's John but he just *can't*, and it feels so good to have one goddamn thing that this body has over his puppet.

If he bothered to peek past the booze, he'd find that this body only makes him feel stupid when he tries to tease. But he'll let that thought lie where it fell, because he can *feel* the way Danny pushes his hips forward, seeking contact.

He can feel Danny's clothed cock bump his lower stomach. Fuck. *Fuck.*

"Oh, just that? I can give you that." Danny says with a grin. Correction, Levi's telepathy provides: he would love to give you that, *please.* He's even letting his hands trace the hemline of Levi's pants, a hint about what he wants before he even opens his mouth again. "May I?"

Normally Levi would refuse. He only knows his normal because the idea of this has plagued him for months, and in ten fantasies out of ten he was coaxing Danny not to float as he sunk his mouth down to Danny's base and took him all.

But tonight he's too busy marveling at the way his body is happily, enthusiastically responding to Danny's closeness and '*ah,*' Levi thinks, '*that's what it's supposed to feel like.*' He's so turned on already that he can feel the slick of his wetness coating the inside of his thighs. His legs shift together, trying to alleviate it, hoping for- god, why hide it? Hoping for Danny between them, whether it's his hand, his face, or his hips. Doesn't really matter.

"Go for it." Levi says, but he's still surprised when Danny yanks him up onto the counter before his trousers come off. Nope, not just trousers. Underwear too. The marble is freezing cold against his ass but hey, kitchen counters are the perfect place to eat. He's going to deny that sound later, the sound he makes when Danny coaxes his legs open. He'll edit it right out of the clip he's made of the noise *Danny* made, and he's not sure Danny knows he made it or that Levi heard it. He knows how to do *this,* he's just never done it with a man before, and that thought fills Levi with equal measures of jealousy and comfort up until Danny bends to kiss his thigh and everything, everything else goes away for just a little moment.

"This is my first," Levi gasps when Danny's thumb creeps over to slide along the line of a scar on his thigh, not because he wants to share it but because it feels *important*, and because Danny is apparently the sounding board for every stupid secret he's had. '*Why not talk about the threesome dream while you're at it?*' "...time."

"I better make it *really* good then," Danny laughs, not at Levi but just because he can't believe this is happening, his face heating further when Levi's hands find a good grip in his hair, which is just as soft as it looks. And Levi's hands feel it just as well as he sees it when Danny fully dips his head between his thighs and... *damn.*

His throat clamps automatically against his first moan, and every one after that is a little easier, caught behind the tight press of his lips. He grabs the glass of whiskey and takes a full gulp of it.

Danny's tongue traces up the slit between Levi's legs twice before it pushes a little further, before one hand slips off Levi's thigh to spread him open. His only sounds are gasps and sighs. His body tells a different story: tightened grips on Danny's hair, twitching muscles, a bottom lip clamped hard between his teeth.

"Fingers," He demands, because all this is already so much without having to ask nicely, and because even at home alone he wants it like this, fingers pressing up against his g-spot.

Danny obliges with just one at first, and that's enough. Levi sees more than senses what Danny wants: himself, legs wrapped tight around Danny's hips as he buries himself inside, every thrust deep...

It feels better to think of this all as what Levi wants. Being wanted is *hard*, being wanted feels *wrong*, and so in his own mind he imagines Danny pressed back against the sheets, Levi fucking down against his straddled hips.

"Oh fuck," Danny whimpers, finger still buried in Levi even as he butts his head against Levi's hip. Levi didn't mean to push the idea out, but it's already out there before he knows it. And he knows that it barely matters that Danny knows the origin of the thought, mostly seeing it as his own: '*Me pressed back against my sheets, Levi fucking down against my straddled hips.*'

He wants to throw the glass still in his grip. He wants a smoke. The most sane thing he wants is to touch Danny and to be touched back, and it would be easier to use his grip on Danny's hair to slide him back between his thighs, but he doesn't do that. He tilts Danny's head up oh so gently. It's mostly a strain on himself to bend his back so sharply when he leans down to kiss him again, tasting himself on Danny's lips and tongue. Daniel, lips parting to let Levi kiss him deeper, isn't passive the way Levi half-wishes he was. Another finger slips in, both curling up to push up at just the right angle.

Fuck.

He does his damnest to strangle that noise back where it belongs, behind his teeth where it won't do too much damage. But his lips and teeth are parted to slot as much of his mouth against Danny's as he can, and that's been going on *too long*, and so he parts them with a yank on that feather-soft hair just in time to make his punched-out whine harden into a rasp. Danny's thumb finds his clit faster than his half-lidded eyes can find contact with Levi's.

"How's that?" He asks with a grin that Levi hears as much as sees. Bastard. The bastard's other hand is tracing the scars on Levi's thigh with a reverence that doesn't feel soothing- which is fine really, Levi thinks he'd hate being patted and doted on like a twitchy stray cat, most of all *now* when what he wants is... exactly what Danny's giving him. *That look,* like...

"Is *that* why you keep looking at the scars?" Levi asks, breath hitching on a moan and then bursting back out with a breathless laugh. *Incredible.* "A kink?"

Danny doesn't have to answer, the flush on his cheeks does all the talking. But does anyway, "*yeah*", before he leans back down and wraps his lips around Levi's clit.

"Oh my-- *god*," Levi laughs again, bringing the glass up to his mouth and just butting the rim up against his lips. "I'm here telling- you my darkest... secrets... and you're getting... a stiffy over my scars. *Oh fuck,*" He gulps down another swallow of whiskey before he sinks down against the countertop, skin prickling with goosebumps as soon as the marble touches his skin.

"I think I finally get your sense of humor," Danny quips from between his legs, right before his tongue laps around his fingers, dipping into his entrance. Levi grunts, his whole core starting to tense, his thighs threatening to clamp around his poor victim's head. Danny's doing so good it feels like a challenge, and he doesn't plan to lose.

"Then you're... *probably* drunk enough... I don't want *either* of us sober... for my first time." Levi hisses, and he can just barely feel Danny's thoughts butting through the haze of his drunkenness, and he's got to cut that off *now*. "I showed you mine, when... are you gonna show me... yours? Scars. Body. *Come here.*"

Danny's lips are on his again, and his fingers have never stopped moving. Levi is trying and failing to plant his heels against the countertop so he can grind down on them.

He just *knows* none of those pinup shots are real. Photoshop or something. Not just the physique but the skin, not even the most premium doctors could erase everything Retribution did to Danny.

It's not the scars that are Levi's kink, exactly. He just like thinking that he's made his mark on this new territory, left something behind that'll stick even when this all goes to shit. He knows on a bone-deep level that it will, that there's an invisible timer ticking down at inconsistent, immeasurable speed.

Danny-Daniel has to pull his fingers out to undress, not looking even the slightest bit self-conscious. Levi wonders if it feels *good* to know he's so wanted, so want*able*, if Danny actually feels sexy under his scrutiny. The thought of eyes on him makes him feel pinned down like some etymological victim, or maybe like the butt of some joke. It's made worse by how bad he still wants this, like at any moment Danny will pull back and laugh at his enthusiastic desperation.

"Fuck you." He blurts with a little too much heat, one hand shooting up to grasp the curve of Danny's pec. "The pictures were real."

Except for the scars, but that registers more on the lizard hindbrain than on the more upfront desires burning up right out on the open. Thank *god* Danny isn't a telepath, because his mind is flooding with desires without proper outlet: bite, devour, fuck, make him beg, make him CRY

The buzz of too-bright thought bubbles up between them, and Levi knows it's Danny's thought before he even forms it into words and pictures- Levi doesn't need a cock to *fuck him* and use him the way he wants, he'd be a willing but mischievous little toy for Levi to gnaw on, to take what he wants. Just an illusion of true submission, but it works. He wants to make Levi come *so bad* that it snaps into Levi's mind stronger than Danny's base need to stick his cock in him. He'd happily let Levi ride his face for the rest of the night, as long as Danny could just see him blissed out at the end of it.

"*Fuck you,*" He repeats, and Danny laughs this time, though his face is heated. It contrasts so nicely with the pale hue his skin usually takes. This time Levi can see just how far that blush travels- it meets his jaw, then neck, collarbones and beyond. The fingers still splayed on Danny's chest just toe the blurred line of where his blush ends. The heat extends past that. Levi thinks he can feel his own sweat beading where their bodies are pressed together. "You think I won't? I've got no gripes about leaving you like this."

"Let me take you to the bedroom?" He offers rather than demands, bubbling up another flock of associated thoughts and feelings. Levi doesn't need to read them, because Danny happily says it. "My bed is a lot more comfortable. It's soft."

"I prefer firm." He doesn't, but he's a contrarian little ass even when he's not drunk. That means, though, that Danny just blinks down at him with this look of feigned innocence that makes Levi want to scream, or at least just bite him.

"Take me there," He orders a half-beat later, because he knows that Danny won't just fucking take him until he gets a straight answer for once. It doesn't matter if Danny's deciphered his code or not, Levi still needs to speak his language for him to work. Like saying the right cheat code or entering the right password. "*Now,*"

This time Danny moves him without sass, slipping back into the comfort of their dynamic. Not nearly as well-worn as Levi's dynamic with *Ortega*, where communication moves with a connection delivered through words spoken in the past. Danny has acclimated himself to Levi with a speed that betrays all of that pure observational skill; on Levi's end, it's mostly telepathy. He's not afraid to cheat, just a little ashamed to admit it.

Maybe it would be better not to think of Ortega, who still brings up a sharp and pleasant sting in his chest in some sort of psychosomatic response, or maybe some sort of learned pain- it'll hurt when the bad part happens, so might as well start the hurting now. Things like seeing Ortega with a million and one potential love interests and only turning to Levi with entirely platonic affection.

Not like Herald-Danny, who looks at Levi like he's worth fucking on clean sheets and a soft mattress, like he'd care if Levi dipped past nervous, neurotic, but enthusiastic participation and into a sort of dull-eyed acceptance-

No. He has to physically shake that thought away, body quaking enough that Danny shoots a puzzled look his way as he bends down to gather Levi up in his arms.

"Your counter is so fucking cold,"

"The bedroom's warmer," Danny assures with a coy smile, using the moment to warm Levi's back with his hands. "We can turn on the heater if it's that bad."

"Who the fuck," Levi spits with contempt, shoving his face against Danny's neck even as his skin prickles with latent discomfort, "Has a heater in Los Diablos? Get a white noise machine and just cope with eighty degree weather, you freak."

All of this shit- Danny carrying him in his arms, Danny kissing him, holding him, accepting him, *loving him*- it's declawing Levi bit by bit. The Levi of months ago could've broken the man's spirit, forced Danny to reject him, heard and *felt* how much it would hurt the little hero. Now he's not sure he could muster anything affective. He's tracing the tips of his short nails along the edges of all of Danny's scars, dismissing a halfhearted fantasy about tearing them back open with Retribution's clawed gauntlets. Instead he's catching Danny's skin between his teeth, too soft to deal real damage. He's finding the peaks and valleys of Danny's muscles with his fingertips, only pausing to rub a nipple under his roughened thumb.

--

Danny is floating them both to the bedroom, cracking an unashamed smile to greet the hard stare Levi tries- and fails- to give him.

'*I wish I were a telepath too.*'

"No, you don't."

'*If I were, I could know what you're thinking right now.*'

"You don't think you could ask?"

'*I don't think you would answer.*'

[urvishmehta]

Memories, Memes, Musings and Memoirs

(On what the T20 World Cup 2024 meant, and what it will continue to mean)

They say, you cannot script fairy-tales without introducing demons. Poetic endings are impossible without a phase where rhythm is found lacking. Climaxes need prior anti-climaxes to ensure that happy endings are earned and not just bestowed.

Sports is cruel, because it has the ability of igniting recurring hope. And hope is something which can polarise the state of being. It can often convert bouts of laughter into wry smiles. It can both enable and restrict positive imagination.

The unary outcome of sports leaves no room for multi-valued assessment of defeats. Statistics overpower sentiments, because the podium does not recognise how intensely the defeated wanted to be the victor.

The 2024 T20 World Cup win is like a bandage which just not conceals the wounds, but has curative properties to heal them from within. The victory feels like a weary desert traveller seeing an oasis, mentally considering it to be a mirage, and ending up finding that it exists in actuality. It is like a dreary yet a determined student working tirelessly to clear an elusive final exam, to find that the marksheet finally has the words "Cleared with distinction". It is like finding the love of your life waiting for you on the wedding altar, after a tumultuous heart-wrenching romantic chronicle.

The context arc couldn't have been more articulative. A legendary player turned coach, who in his playing days could never lay hands on the prized silverware. A man-next-door captain, with child-like innocence and heroic intent. An indefatigable champion, the master of run chase, with a trophy cabinet defined more by empty spaces than insertions. A celebrated all-rounder, coming from the annals of darkness and soul-crushing hatred. A demi-God masquerading as a leader of the pace bowling attack.

The Indian team's mega-tournament legacy was punctuated with the consistency of their inconsistency in the must-win matches. The "30 minutes of bad cricket" which costed tournaments and championships. The surrender of momentum. The trade-off of assertion with caution. The overwhelming, and sadly, over powering pressure. Analysis paralysis. Unsettled combinations and unsettling dynamics. The missing big day composure.

And yet, in a fitting manner, it took one leap for India to get over the finish line. History was erased, and created, all at the same time.

One additional reason why the victory feels hyper-personal, is due to the amplification effects of social media. No match experience is complete unless memes are traded, reels are assimilated and feeds are scrolled through. The information and reaction influx is vastly penetrative, overwhelmingly vast and frighteningly real-time. Athletes have no hiding space. It takes only a few moments for an activity to be analysed bare-bones at a mass scale.

Yet, for whatever it is worth, it makes the fan experience very engagement-heavy. Fan involvement (and sometimes interference) assumes epic proportions. The constant imagery of knock-out defeats almost traumatised an entire generation in India. It induced gloom, despair and even pessimism. We forgot what it meant to win a multi-nation tournament. Victories were lived only through nostalgia. Khada hoon aaj bhi wahin, lagi teri hi aas hai, Kaisi hai yeh bebasi, yeh kaisi dil ki pyaas hai. This World Cup victory, however, applies more than a veneer to this tarred virtual imagery. This triumph provides both happiness and relief, which are more often than not, mutually exclusive feelings in the world of sports. This, I believe, is the summary of what this conquest means.

Tutaa yeh dil toh kyaa hua, abhi baaki hai dhadkane dhadkane, Baaki hai hum me dum, har kasam ko phirse dohrao. Hai sadaa har dil ki, har sadaa ko milke dohrao.

In the Bradman Oration of 2011, Rahul Dravid had mentioned - "After India won the World Cup this year, our players were not congratulated as much as they were thanked by people they ran into". I often wonder and think about the depth of this statement. There is no bigger platform than cricket in India as far as extension of one's supposed representation is concerned. The everyman on India's street thinks that this victory is not restricted to the eleven individuals who donned the blues against South Africa. This victory is also his, both privately and publicly. There is a collective social ownership of India lifting the cup. This sporting romanticism is a feeling to behold and treasure.

When the books of Indian cricket get written and re-written, this chapter will be laced with episodes of resilience, belief and assertion.

This was the midnight which took away the sporting nightmares of Indians and replaced them with sublime day-dreams.

[burning-candlelight]

wrote this about going to an online school for a huge chunk of my schooling (7th-12th). i did it for various reasons, good and valid reasons, but it was very, very lonely. i had friends, i did, good ones in a sense, but yeah my feelings about it are here. not polished, maybe nonsensical in some places. but yeah.

-----

You watch the kids around you grow into their environments. You watch people interact and mesh and clash. People complain about drama and yeah, I get it, I really do. But 6 years is a long time.

Whatever dregs of drama, if it can even be called that, which have caught up to me are so stripped of whatever one might find entertaining or enjoyable, stripped of any hiding good intention. Like a mango seed with all the sweet pulp sucked off of it, and now you’re chewing on the pure fiber-y strands of hate, getting it all stuck in your teeth. Because there’s nothing else to eat. Nothing at all. And it really wouldn’t be so bad, but 6 years is an awfully long time.

It's not the drama, in the end. In fact, it never really was. Honestly, I've never really heard of someone that says they miss drama. Many spend much of their lives trying to escape it. So it's really, honestly, not the drama. I could be poetic and say its everything else, or allude to some other devastating problem, but the truth is that there were no other issues. There was no discord. There was nothing at all. There was nothing at all. 6 years feels very, very long.

There was no harm, no harmony. There were no fights, nor makeups. Well, there have been, of course, I suppose, but what did those really matter, those few times, in the face of the 6 gnawing years.

I try to make it pretty, I try to channel the hurt into ivory words. But it’s big. The feeling of nothing is so, so impossibly large.

It feels, in that sense, not dramatic. No drama, no irony, no tears, no flourishes. Poems, metaphors, maybe. But to take a lens and zoom, as is the key to many emotions, seems quite impossible in this case. Something like the vast expanse of space, a whole infinite void of nothing consumes my chest. I have no memories to cry over, nothing to hold dear, no tarnished ideals or bruises. I really wouldn’t mind those, nowadays.

And it’s especially sad, when I think of others. For others I can zoom in and the hurt, the feeling of irreconcilably lost time disappears, and a sense of tragedy fills me. I suppose the lost time is tragedy, but not in the same way. I cannot cry for myself, feel sad in the way I am supposed to, not the way I do when I zoom in on others. Because there are others, by the way. Not just me. And its so sad, because we really did try so damn hard. Or, at least I did. And I know many others did too. I can’t say anyone failed us in particular, because I don’t think there was any winning in the first place. We came here, and there was no winning. There was no correct or blatantly happy outcome. There never is, of course, so you could say its really more the universe at fault than the people in charge, but still, you just wouldn’t expect to lose so hard. You gain comrades, brothers in arms clinging to each other to not drown, with a wild and reckless lack of discrimination or forethought. You cling, you hold each other through cold nights, you keep each other from drowning, and through all that, despite all that, the empty nothing persists.

Regret is a feeling I find hard to place. I have a permeating knowledge, or at least a belief, that I’m trying my best. That everyone is. I know that my choices brought me here, they have become me, and frankly, that it’s not too bad of an outcome. But 6 years is a very, very long time.

There’s no pretty conclusion, no moral of the story, no succinct message. A void persisted for 6 years, or perhaps I persisted within one. Reprieve came short and sweet; rations you would stretch from one long month to the next to keep yourself from despair. But really, it was what it was. A tragedy, frankly, because there’s no hero, no winning, no victors– only loss, only survivors, only victims. And 6 lost years out of 18 is a fucking tragedy. I am me because of these years. I ask myself, how do I reconcile this? Heal, like I feel like must? And after these 6 long years, I find that I don’t think I can. I think I just have to live with it.

[wyldwolves]

Had it been years before even just days before the breaking of her world by whatever his intention had been just to leave her - neither would've minded the abysmal atmosphere. The word quaint would've fallen from her lips and her eyes full of a deep love and admiration for the fool in front of her. Gently a hand would've offered itself to him, inviting and intreating his fingers to find their home laced with hers. The Lyanna would had believed in love and in him would've chuckled softly at the rejection of his meal and told him let her love be his sustenance, his salvation and his faith. Maybe she wouldn't have waxed so poetically but she would've if he were hers found him something fresh and edible - she would've given him the best as Stark who liked to travel light and with less could. Seven hells, Lyanna would've gotten up from the wooden bench to go through the door they'd entered only to return moments later to had wild game over to the chef and insist they prepare him only their finest and Lyanna would've handed them spices and herbs she never left without and could easily fine to ensure it was properly seasoned. Maybe she waited for the opportunity for him to suffer the gruel a moment longer to provide for him.

Show him she was not the soft flower that would've transplanted itself into the hedge maze at Highgarden but the she-wolf who mated for life prepared to care for her chosen partner. Of all the siblings who had been raised howling in the winter storm she was the most wolfen of them all often having dreams of running free with paws beneath her roaming a world beyond the wall. Restless and wild and in love with the land and the flowers about her that grew in strange places and intriguing places. Those dreams had only calmed in his arms even if lust fueled the embrace first - they had once even accomplished to make her feel the safest and yet in the greatest of dangers. In danger of needing him too much. In danger of being the wolf that would guard his hearth and mother his children until she died protecting them or old age came.

Had he said something true even now it might not have been love on the white of her eyes but maybe understanding and fellow feeling. Lya was disappointed he gave up on conversation so easily - tired of her it seemed. Why were they all teeth? Why did they just continually now seek to hurt one another with jabs and inappropriate jokes. Lyanna was tired of being hurt by what she loved. Spikes retracted for a moment as she only chuckled now not finding a reason to hold back -he was a big man if he could find no humor in his actions just now why attempt to annoy her to death. Even in her deep dislike he was funny albeit unintentionally.

When his hand dared to cut her off and cover her mug to suggest she was done - to tell her what she or rather they were going to do as if commandeering her role as leader of this pathetic company of theirs - rat king and knife woman. As she was about to respond, lips curled and words ready to speak of something scandalous near demanding he make her stop - shut her up if he was tired of hearing insults flung at him and not a body the tavern wench appeared. The Stark nearly growled but it was enough to remind her even with the headiness that started to creep into her bones needed not continue farther. Cutting her off was wise, reminding her of their earlier start better and being there - maybe he was useful. It nearly appeared as if he cared genuinely but Lyanna had yet to learn if there remained any genuine part of him. She wanted to shake him and ask the real reason why follow her now if he ran then? Why?

Putting the mug down, Lyanna breathed in deeply, regaining the moment of lost composure. There was a slight narrowing of her eyes but a flicker of acknowledgement he was right. They could debate who had killed more people at another date and time and if his blade were swifter or more fearsome than her own when on the road. Another deep breath the lady turned to the wench and was inform that indeed their accommodations were ready.

'Only the finest for m'lords money, m'lady. We've gone ahead and made it special for such fancy customers .' was what the girl replied before becoming them forward and toward the stairs to the upper rooms. It was something about the way the girl said those words that gave her a chill up her spine, setting hairs on edge. Rising from the table, Lyanna subtly brushed off the dust from her bodice and moved onto the skirts she wore for appearance. Bunching up a handful she lifted the side for a moment revealing part of her leg and the breeches she wore beneath said skirts tapping the knife before dropping them down. The movement was so fluid and she was unsure if he remembered where she kept her blades anymore after four years apart. Lyanna didn't wish to cause a brawl in the bar but she didn't feel at ease with the girls comments or how eyes shifted to them and went back drinking still watching from the rims of tankards.

Lya nodded following, hand nearly forgetting itself in a languid extension as if to imply he take it. Fingers pulled a way though and back to her person as she spoke following the girl. "M'lord is not feeling so well. The - soup - didn't sit so well with him I would ask we not be disturbed so he might rest" She spoke as if there was genuine concern for her travelling companion as the Stark mounted the stairs half ready to grab the knife she'd concealed on her thigh - or any number on her person. Stairs creak and moan with each step climbing further up passing the first floor and then the next. Lorent wanted to be a protector if her suspicion was correct it could be something waited ahead that was far more that what she'd paid for with Lorent's coin. Perhaps the request she had made was taken out of context..

'This is the only room we have left, its not even a room really its the attic but my pa made sure there was acc-accommodations for you like you requested" The girl gabbed on letting Lya's request slip free as they reached the door at the top of the stairs a third floor attic door. 'Oh no milady but what about the duck ye requested when asking for the room to be served privately and the biscuits and tea me mum made for ye as a surprise for such well paying customers - should we take that back we'd hated for the food to go to waste- oh - oh that was meant to be a surprise oh heavens. mother preserve me I've gone and let it free. We figured if you asked for a fine bed for your husband and the fine food that when you asked us to feed him gruel you were being cheeky - you and your husband should be comfortable madame - I should go"

The tavern girl spoke watching Lya's jaw tighten as she couldn't stop spilling information knocking open the door to a cramped attic room that had been made clearly more compact with the addition of a single bed, the food set on the edge of a dresser and Lya stood on the landing with an exasperated sigh pinching her nose as the girl scurried off. "I thought she was going to rob us not assume because of my additional request that we - you and i would ever be - I'll sleep - shit" Lyanna spoke watching a bug skitter past knowing the floor was not an option. "Say a single damn word I will hurl the duck down the flight of stares and neither of us eats or sleeps tonight. Get in before they smell it and assume any further that we are a married couple. "

Now he knew though why he was served ancient bread and positively revolting gruel. She'd intended to punish him but that Lyanna had made such request with the tavern owner for a room. She'd only asked for a nice bed, good food and a place to stay. Had her intention been to be nice and then escape him when he was full. "Don't stand gawking"

"i had thought it unwise to embark on our journey unprepared. my expertise lies further south, you see." the shit-eating grin that stretched deep into his dimples proved he knew damn well what a pain in the arse he was. and in truth, it was far easier to revel in that role he had adopted, to be the scoundrel and the good-for-nothing and the liar his own actions had painted him as, than to reveal the true reason behind his insistence to travel with her. lorent could not make good for time squandered, he could not mend once-joint hearts he had shattered, he could not even begin to fathom how to arrange his skewed and distorted thoughts in such a way another another person might be able comprehend them. but he could be of use to her by protecting her. he could shield her and gamble his own life so that she would live to make the most of hers.

"well, that makes two of us then. a thrilling venture awaits, no doubt." indignities continue to fall freely from her lips and while he'd had every intention of making worthwhile conversation with her, he trailed off at certain points. there were only so many ways she could reiterate her displeasure at his keeping her company, and he needn't hear every single one tonight. "it's not my safety i'm concerned with, not predominantly, in any case. it is yours, lyanna." he squinted at her, teetering dangerously close to uttering a statement steeped in sincerity for a change, but then he promptly regressed to his habitual smirk. "wish me away for all i care, but i've fought more men than i can count. how many have you fought, exactly?"

a moment of commotion demanded his attention, his frame growing tense with it, poised to react -- and then it faded into roaring laughter again, and lorent gazed at her near-apologetically. "nothing fruitful will come from wasting our energies quarrelling. my blade is yours, and it is a swift and fearsome blade, of that i can assure you." he breathed a weary exhale, glanced down to his food once more and stirred it as lips curled in disgust. "the girl? i can't say. what do you reckon this congealed mess is? a badger's intestines?" and with that, he'd ruined every chance of tucking into the meal again. lyanna resorted to her belligerent ways again and he placed a hand over her empty cup, signalling they'd had their fill for the night. "if you're quite finished hurling insults at me, i think it best to inquire about our rooms for the night. we've an early start tomorrow."

[miss-smutty]

Only One Rule

A/N- a little bit late but I still have some valentine's Day one shots I wanted to do 🙈

Can you tell big, manly, dominant men are my kink? ✨ 🥵🥵

Summary- You and your best guy friend are single and decide to have an Anti-Valentines day night together watching horror movies, there's only one rule - NO mention of ANYTHING romantic. You get scared and one things leads to another...

Pairing- Thor x you

Word count- 2,260

Warnings- Swearing, smut

18+ only

Posted: 18th February 2021

Valentine's One-Shot Masterlist

"If you're coming over tonight, there's only one rule - NO romance what so ever and I know that's going to be so hard for you because you're all chivalrous and old fashioned but that's the deal, ok?" You said to Thor through the phone, trying to make plans for the night. It was Valentine's Day and you were pathetically single, luckily for you, so was Thor. It had been your idea to have an Anti-Valentines night with your best friend, the last thing you needed was to be reminded that people are actually in love. 

"What are you talking about Y/N?"

"Like no romance at all, no romantic movies, no describing women in a poetic way and even no holding doors open for me. Basically just don't be you for the night."

"You want me to be somebody else?" You're confusing his poor ditzy brain.

"Right, you know that show we watched together - Sons of Anarchy?" You ask.

"Yes, the one with the bikers" you can practically hear the cogs turning in his brain.

"Yeah... be like him, the main guy" 

"You want me to treat you like a whore and call you bitch?" Wow! Why did those words coming from Thor's lips, make your pussy flutter?

"Well not exactly but that's better than being all mushy" you were thankful he was on the other end of the phone because you were sure your cheeks were glowing, bright red.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about but I'll see you tonight" he hung up the phone before you could protest anymore.

Now all you had to do was spend the day avoiding anything love related, which meant you couldn't leave the house. If you did you'd be surrounded by couples, kissing and holding hands. Bleugh, thinking about it was enough to make you sick.

You spent the day picking out horror movies you could watch, preparing snacks and getting yourself ready. Just because you were anti-love didn't mean you couldn't look your best. You convinced yourself you were dressing up because you had nothing better to do, it's not like it's a date or anything, is it? You pondered the thought, he's your best friend, no definitely not a date.

*****************

Shaking the curls loose from your head and running your fingers through them, you stood up to check yourself out in the mirror.

The high-waisted leather look trousers, with a deep plunge, black cami top didn't look too much did it? You turned around in the mirror, checking yourself at a different angle and completed the look with some red lipstick. Just as you began to doubt your outfit choice you heard the doorbell ring, too late now.

You couldn't help feeling nervous as you made your way to the door, to let Thor in. What the hell is going on with me?

Thor's jaw fell to the floor as you opened the door, looking you up and down as you stood in the doorway.

"Is there a change of plan? Are we going out?" He asked, still unable to pull his eyes away from your chest. You couldn't help feeling sexy as hell when he couldn't take his eyes off of you. Seriously, what the fuck is going on? He's your best friend, been your best friend since he came back to earth and you'd never had these sort of feelings for him before?

"Erm no. I just... Erm. We're watching horror movies I thought I'd dress as the queen of darkness" shrugging your shoulders sarcastically.

"If you wanted to be queen you..." Thor started before you cut him off mid-sentence.

"Ah Thor, stop! I know you was just about to say something romantic and you've barely walked through the door"

"Right sorry, whores and bitches. Got it... Is that the look you were going for?"

"Are you saying I look like a whore? I don't know whether to be proud or offended" you scoffed, pushing his tall frame into the room.

"No, no... I..."

"Relax I'm just fucking with ya" poor Thor, doesn't know if he's coming or going, you laugh under your breath, putting your hand over your mouth when he glares at you.

"Why don't you pick a movie while I order pizza?" You pass Thor the remote while you search through your phone for the number.

After a couple of minutes he turns to you, smiling widely "Right, I've chosen the movie"

You look up from your phone to see he'd chosen a forbidden chick flick.

"No way!'

"Relax, I'm just fucking with you" he laughs, proudly.

"Ohhh, touche." You say, laughing along with him.

************

The movie you'd chosen was ridiculously scary, you'd had to grab a cushion from behind you to use as a shield on the really jumpy parts. Thor had gotten himself comfy on the couch with his long legs stretched out and feet resting on the coffee table in front, along with the snacks and pizza. His arm was stretched around the back of the couch, behind your head, his tall, thick physique making your couch look tiny and giving you no option but to snuggle up closely to him.

"Argh!" You scream at another jump scare, throwing yourself into Thor's side and hiding your face into his chest. Wow does he always smell this good? You sneaked a peek at him through your eyelashes and found him contently watching you, making your stomach flip when you look into his deep, blue eyes.

You move away from him, trying to put as much distance between you as you can on this small couch. Your thighs are still touching and you can feel physical sparks from the contact, Thor smirks at you when he realises what you're doing.

"Y/N - "

"Nope, stop" you cut him off, knowing he's going to say something that's going to melt your heart and make you lose all your restraint.

"But - " He continues.

"Shh" you say pointing at the screen in front of you, pretending to watch but you can't stop your mind from racing. He's your best friend, you can't feel this way? Can you?

He puts his big hand on your thigh, shocking you when it makes your heart stop. You look down, staring at it, unsure of what to say. You can see he's watching you, more than he's watching the movie and it makes you squirm in your spot.

Oh fuck, why is he looking at me like that? Your heart is racing so fast.

From the corner of your eye, you can see he's moved so he's facing you and he's now making his way towards you.

"What are you - " his lips make contact with yours, stopping you mid-sentence, pushing you back so your laid on your couch and he's hovering above you.

"Thor I said no rom -"

"Just shut up for once, will you?" Oh fuck me! Your pussy clenches. You're weak, so fucking weak. You release a inhuman noise, somewhere between a whine and moan and it stirs an animalistic nature in Thor. You can actually see the switch in his eyes as they swirl with hunger.

"Open your legs" yes fucking sir! You do as you're told and he settles himself in-between them, eating you up with his eyes.

"Thor - "

"Seriously, shh. You've been such a brat all day and then I find you wearing this, I can't take much more" his words and deep tone of voice make you welp. He smiles darkly, knowing what he's doing to you. Is this really the Thor you know?

What have you created? Whatever it is, you fucking want it!

"Take off your trousers - " you start peeling them down immediately but he stops your hands midway " - No. slowly" he groans. Oh fuck!

Thor bites his bottom lip and groans loudly when he sees your black, lacey panties. Unable to keep up the slow pace, he hungrily grasps your mound in the palm of his hand.

"Mmm, so wet" he smirks. How is this even happening?

"Wait, Thor - " you stop him, just before he pulled down your panties, his fingers hooked into either side.

"What now?" He sighs, exasperated.

"Only one rule -" he cuts you off, too eager to get started.

"Yes, yes, yes. No romance, I get it. I can fuck you without being romantic" he says gruffly. oh my dear fucking lord! Yes please! He rips your panties as he's pulling them down and flings them off to the side with a grunt, his strength and eagerness betraying him.

He kneels up inbetween your thighs, circling your clit with his thumb while he watches you intently, squirming beneath him. When he sees your stomach clench, he stops rubbing, making you moan loudly.

"If you don't like it, then why are you moaning?" He whispers into your ear. Oh god! You want to grab him but he's pinning you in place with his thick thighs.

"I didn't say I didnt like - " he didn't wait for you to finish before he buried his face between your legs " - ah fuck Thor" lapping at your wetness with his thick fucking tongue. Your body jerks as he repeatedly circles your clit with the tip of his tongue. It's truly agonisingly pleasurable, desperately pushing yourself up into his mouth.

"Fuck, you taste so fucking good" he says stopping to look up at you, his mouth glistening with your juices before he dives straight back in, making you writhe and moan.

"Oh god Thor, I can't take anymore" you scream as your legs begin shaking uncontrollably and your body turns ridgid as you gush all over his mouth.

"Mmm" he says while still pressing his lips to you, the sound vibrating your already swollen, aching clit making you release another orgasm. You still haven't recovered from the first and the whole room spins around you as you come down from the high, a ringing reverberating in your ears. Thor still sucking your clit into his mouth while his tongue flicks up and down relentlessly.

"I can't... Ah fuck. Pleaseee" you plead, unable to take much more of the unforgiving pleasure coursing through your core.

He moves his mouth away but replaces his lips with his thick fingers, so you only have seconds to breathe before your holding your breath again. Desperately grasping at the sofa cushions to brace yourself.

"Tell me" he says breathlessly, his hair tousled from your fingers.

"I... I -" you can't speak, you don't even know what day it is. Locked in a neverending loop of pure hedonism.

"I won't stop until you tell me what you want" he curls his fingers up to meet your spot, gazing in your eyes as he continually finger bangs you until you're gushing over his fingers. Melting into the couch with the euphoric rapture of yet another orgasm. Mewling beneath him as you unspeakably beg him for his cock without actually being able to speak out loud.

"Fuck... Me" you force out between breaths making him smile wickedly. All you can do is lay there and watch as he pulls his trousers over his cheeks, just until his cock is free. Before you can even take in the sight of his huge cock, he's slamming you into oblivion.

You instinctively wrap your legs around his back, pushing him impossibly deeper into you, with your feet. You watch his face screw as your walls clamp around his cock like a vice, groaning in your ear as he slams into you over and over again.

You've never felt pleasure like this before, the whole thing has felt like one giant orgasm from start to finish. You don't ever want it to end, his narcotic power over you. The way he can make you feel like a goddess but weak at the same time.

You roll your hips, bringing them up to meet his thrusts at a unbelievable pace. You can feel the gripping sensation rising through your veins again as you come harder than ever before, screaming at the same time. Thor looks at you, checking you're ok before he carries on the onslaught. You're an absolute quivering wreck and you don't know how you can take much more without shattering into a million pieces.

"You good?" He whispers in your ear, slowing down the pace ever so slightly.

"Hmm, kiss me." he smiles before kissing you tenderly, opening your mouth with his lips so he can find your tongue. You hold on to his back while he fucks you gently, a much softer, forgiving pace.

"I thought you said no romance?" You feel him smile on your lips, while you roll your hips into his, matching his pace.

He moves the hair from your face and holds your head in his hands, his forehead resting on yours.

"Look at me" he continues thrusting in to you while you gaze into each others eyes. The look of lust you see there, making your orgasm build again. You can feel his cock twitching when he's almost ready, grunting with the last of his thrusts. You can feel the power of his come as he pumps into you, then falls limply on your chest. You're both panting loudly as you wait for your climaxes to pass, your chests rising and falling so fast. He rests himself between your legs, trying not to put all of his weight on to you, waiting for you to recover in a comfortable silence.

"Well that escalated quickly" you say, laughing nervously, hoping that this wasn't going to make things awkward between you now.

"I'm not finished with you yet" or maybe it's just the start of a whole new relationship dynamic, one you were more than happy to pursue after that performance.

[mellowswriting]

Sweet but Fierce S/O

**some of these are more blurbs than headcanons... what can I say, it got away from me

Mando: 

The duality is something Mando sees often with you, and he can’t deny that he loves it. You aren’t just sweet and soft with him, an experienced bounty hunter who by definition was the opposite of soft, but you were so good with the Child. You could get him to sleep like you had cast a spell over him, fed and played and talked with him as if you could actually understand his babbling. Soft and sweet wasn’t something Mando saw often in his life and now he can’t get enough of it.

But Mando is familiar with fierce, and seeing the way you protect the Child and his beskar-clad father? It honestly turns him on beyond comprehension. How can the same hands that provide comfort and care so readily also viciously break the bones in the wrist of someone unfortunate enough to have made a grab for the Child? How can the same hands that make warm, delicious food for your little clan (a habit you picked up after balking at Mando’s tendency to survive solely on ration bars) also steadily hold a blaster to the temple of an idiot who tried to remove Mando’s helmet?

As a Mandalorian, he is so used to the world being black and white, either or. Every bit of you is refreshing to him - the considerate gestures, the soothing touches, the biting need to protect those you love. It’s a precious quality. 

It’s also incredibly attractive. Mandalorian culture is based in caring for and protecting children, so seeing you so fiercely loving?? Basically it makes him want to rail you into oblivion, but that’s neither here nor there. 

Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales:

Frankie could use a little sweetness in his life. It’s been a tough time, coming back from all that shit that went down in South America. He was closer than ever with the boys of course, but something was missing. He needed something more. So when Pope introduced you to him at his barbeque, Frankie was beyond interested.

It was a whirlwind, falling in love with you. You changed his life in the best ways; taught him which yoga poses would help with his achy back, filled his house with soft blankets and delicious coffees, listened to him ramble on as he drove. And the way you talked about your work, your career? It’s enamoring. 

Your work is how he gets to see that fierce side. The two of you were out to lunch when your phone rang - it was one of your clients, apparently dealing with some sort of crisis. Frankie couldn’t deny you when you asked him to drive you to her home, especially since he had driven you to the small restaurant. Frankie leans against his car door as you go up to her house. 

Apparently her landlord was illegally trying to evict her. You have no issue getting in his face and telling him with a terrifying kind of calm that you have no issue calling the police and your company’s lawyers. You’ll have him buried in litigation and fines for the next decade if he doesn’t stop being a greedy piece of shit and go about his day elsewhere. If that wasn’t enough to have Frankie wide eyed (and drooling just a bit tbh), you seem to fall right back into your sweet self as you calm your client and reassure her that all will be fine. 

Hell, maybe Frankie could use a little spitfire in his life, too.

Javier Peña:

How? Just. How?

Javier doesn't understand how you've managed to be so sweet when surrounded by the shit you both worked with everyday. Your eyes are so bright and soft, your smiles easy and pure, every gesture full of unwavering kindness. Working in admin meant you saw all of the reports, all of the gruesome pictures of the aftermath of Escobar’s men. So again: how?

Christ, you always offer to get coffees for him and Murphy on those endlessly long days where every lead seems to fizzle out and he wants nothing more than to put his hand through a wall. Your presence is a bright spot in the office, even when the rain clouds hang heavy around his head. 

Javier seeks you out on those bad days. It isn’t intentional - usually, at least. He’ll tell Murphy he needs to go for a walk before he starts throwing things and will find himself at your desk with you looking up at him with those big, soft eyes and asking if you can help at all. If only he had the words to tell you that your presence was helpful in and of itself. 

Eventually Murphy gets onto him about it, tells him to just ask you out already because he’s tired of the longing. So Javi bucks up and makes his way to your desk with a surprising amount of nerves in his stomach. Fuck, how long had it been since he asked someone on an actual date and not just out to drinks as a prelude to fucking?

The sight of Agent Buchanan perched slightly on the edge of your desk gives him pause. The man is obviously laying on the charm and Javi is about to turn on his heel when he notices how uncomfortable you look. Javi’s eyes narrow because seriously? This dude is gonna fuck with the one literal ray of sunshine in the office? Buchanan leans forward and places his hand on your thigh and that’s when Javier is marching forward to break his spine in fucking half…

Before he can even get to you, you slip your fingers under his and give him that soft, sweet smile… and Buchanan’s middle finger is shoved back at a vicious angle. Over his pained sounds, Javier can hear the anger in your voice. “I said no thank you, asshole.”

Holy fuck. If Javier was interested before, he’s downright obsessed now. 

And as always, the honorable mention of Javier’s innocence kink. 

Ezra: 

At first Ezra thinks it's some sort of bluff, the charming and easygoing nature you portrayed. When you came across him in the Green wounded and in dire need of a new filter and probably a meal or two, you just… helped him. His very own partner left him for dead, and here you were, offering him a lifeline without expecting anything in return.

Yeah, no. That’s not something that happens, especially not in the Green.

He isn’t afraid to call you on it, either. This man is straight and to the point in every aspect of his life, might as well do the same in his death instead of getting jerked around. But you just… grinned, all conspiratorial, and whispered, “I’m actually just using you for good karma. This is a selfish act, don’t worry.” 

Huh.

It takes Ezra a moment to be assured that you aren’t playing some kind of long con as you nurse him back to health. You still clean his wounds and force him to take medication to help his lungs recover from the toxic air with confidence and ease despite his untrusting looks. Once he gets over his fears, there’s no getting rid of him. Ezra likes you. He likes the sweetness, the gentle touches. That’s why he offers you his partnership and beams when you accept.

Besides simply liking you, your kindness is a rarity that sparks a deep need in Ezra to keep you safe, protected. The idea of you harvesting on your own with no one to watch your back makes him feel sick to his stomach.

It’s the third day he’s out harvesting with you that he realizes you absolutely do not need his protection. You hear the duo approaching before Ezra does and immediately shove him into the raised, gnarled roots behind a tree - and the shot that would’ve caught him in the chest flies harmlessly past. Before Ezra can tell you to stay put and let him handle it, you’re scrambling out from behind the tree and he can hear the sound of your thrower discharging and a body crumpling to the ground. 

Ezra shoots out to help but you’re trying to wrestle the other man to the ground and Kevva damnit, he can’t get a clear shot with all that writhing about. Just as he goes to jump into the mix, whatever hold you have on the man straightens his arm out behind his back in a harsh, unforgiving line. The man’s thrower slips from his incapacitated hand and the sight of you snatching up midair and firing it right through his helmet has to be the most erotic thing Ezra has ever seen.

You can expect this man to wax poetic about the twofold of your personality for hours. Goes on and on about how he loves seeing the different ways you light up: in passion, in pleasure, in anger. It’s downright titillating. 

Marcus Pike:

Working with you gives leaves Marcus in the perfect position to see both sides. You’re so compassionate with the victims as you guide them through the legal processes but you also look ridiculously hot with a gun in your hand. Or while you pull on your bulletproof vest. Or when you’re strapping a holster to your thigh.

What can he say, Marcus can’t get enough of you either way. 

He loves when you give him that grateful smile when he brings you a coffee. The shoulder rubs you give him when he’s been sitting at his desk for too long leave him hazy with a mix of love and pleasure. The way you open your arms up for him to crawl into bed, still half asleep but still wanting him against you… it was pure heaven. 

Marcus also loves the hard edge in your voice when you’re interrogating a suspect. He loves the fire in your eyes when he wraps a hand around your throat and growls out exactly what he’s going to do to you, that bratty energy radiating off you and filling him with the need to break you down until he gets to see the pretty, begging glimmer of his sweet little thing again. 

Max Phillips:

Max is the kind of man who loves having a pretty, wide eyed thing beneath him, watching their face morph into that surprised pleasure. That’s exactly what he’s gonna get from you, too. He just knows it.

You’re the kind of person everyone loves working with, always offering a smile and kind words throughout the day. You work so hard and so diligently, that work ethic is something that leaves you offering your assistance when you’ve finished up before closing time. Max thrives on those moments where you peek into his office and ask if there’s anything he needs - maybe a coffee or some help with some paperwork. 

One day he decides, fuck it. Throws caution to the wind because hey, this is Max fucking Phillips we’re talking about here. So he waves you in when you pop by, lets you sit in one of the chairs on the other side of his desk, and whispers “You can help by bending that pretty little ass over my desk.”, his hands braced on either armrest. 

The last thing Max expects is a harsh smack across his face. He stumbles back, eyes wide as you stand and glare at him. “Go fuck yourself, Phillips.” 

Okay, yeah. He deserved that. The great thing about him, though? Max also loves the chase. And what could be better than slowly but surely convincing you that the best thing for you is letting him rail you into oblivion? 

Pero Tovar:

Before he sees that fierce side of you, Pero keeps his distance. He’s a sellsword for god’s sake, he feels he has no business around such softness. He’ll hurt you, he’s sure of it. But that doesn’t stop him from looking. Pero often sees you in the market and every time, you take his breath away. You could usually be found aiding an elder in gathering their shopping into their carts or kneeling down to speak with the local children running amok.

As a man who spent his life surrounded by battle and hardship, it was a nice change.

It wasn’t long until he caught your eye, and Pero floundered. He didn’t know what to do with that first small gesture - he just stared at you when you offered him a small bundle of cheeses and meat to aid him on his two month long journey he was about to set off on. Of course he later cursed himself for the stunned silence he offered in response to your well wishes and the small wave you gave before you left him standing like a fool next to his horse. 

Pero would thank you properly when he returned, that was the resolve he came to while away. You deserved to hear the words at the very least. He takes a moment to clean up before he sets out to find you, not wanting you to see him covered in grime, and as always, he spots you within moments of entering the village. Except something is… off. Your face through the shop window lacks it’s usual brightness, your eyebrows pinched together, something akin to fear replacing the brightness your eyes usually held. That’s when Pero realizes there’s a man holding a dagger to the shopkeeper and demanding the man's coin. 

By the time Pero has his own dagger in hand and shoves through the door, the man is already crumpling to the ground from the harsh kick you landed at the back of his knee. Pero watches in  awe as you take advantage of his confusion to snatch the blade from his hand and point it at him with your foot pressed firm to his back. 

Despite just how amazing you look like that, Pero takes over quickly, wanting you out of harm’s way immediately. The assailant is taken care of after a small struggle and when you rush towards him to make sure he isn’t hurt, a fire lights in his belly. As you fret over him, your soft hands searching for any harm to his scarred, calloused skin, Pero knows. He’s found his person, he can feel it in his gut, deep in his bones. 

[mithrilwren]

Here we go, the cadwulf that wouldn’t let me sleep in this morning. How did this ship happen to me so quickly, and why did my brain decide it needed to be poetic... these are questions that may never be answered.

[Also on Ao3!]

“You don’t like meat, and you don’t like drink.” Eodwulf grins, arms uncrossing. “Is there anything you do like?”

“Well,” says Caduceus.

Eodwulf’s fingers brush the edge of his hair.

“Well?”

And Caduceus never finishes the thought.

---

It turns out they can be persuaded - Astrid, and Eodwulf. Though it’s really Astrid who accepts their second invitation. Eodwulf’s eyes flicker to her before agreeing, and Caduceus notices, as he did the night of the dinner. A hierarchy, it seems, wherein Trent is lord, and Astrid advisor - which leaves Eodwulf a vassal of some sort. Not unacknowledged, but lower down.

Still, when Astrid has drifted to the bar and Caleb and Jester follow, and Fjord and Veth ply Eodwulf for one more round, he has no one to look to for guidance. Caduceus might have expected him to seem lost, except he flourishes under the inattention, growing bolder, more boastful - challenging Yasha to a test of strength, and losing, but only just - and Caduceus’s own attention grows, as bulky muscle strains beneath fine black velvet.

(Tonight, it was Eodwulf who pulled back his chair. “A favour for a favour,” he’d said with a wink, and Caduceus would not have blushed, only it’s strange - nobody’s paid him the courtesy before.

But Eodwulf’s dark eyes were shining with mirth, and he’d blinked his own brighter ones, and taken a seat without a single word of protest.)

The evening is spent in distraction. Eodwulf and Astrid, from their lives of solitude and scrambling; the Mighty Nein, from the next long road ahead; and Caduceus, from his good senses. It’s an indulgence, to pretend that Eodwulf’s attentions to him are anything beyond a man who appreciates a like sense of humour. But Caduceus pretends nonetheless, and grows freer by measures, enjoying the warmth of good natured teasing as much as any liquor flush.

Flirting, he’s tried before, but it never seemed to hit the mark, and his own eyes flicker to Fjord, and Caduceus brings them forcefully back to Eodwulf’s hands on the table - now rough there, now soft another place - one slapping for another drink, the other calling Caduceus over - and Melora help him, he goes.

For the wine of attention is sweet, and sticky red on Eodwulf’s lips, and he thinks he should be allowed to taste it, while he has the chance.

Surely, by now, he’s earned that much.

---

Caduceus is not a man quick to anger. If pressed, he would say he hates nothing at all.

But he hates-

He hates Trent Ikithon.

He hates what he’s done to Caleb, and what he continues to do to the people in his care, and he hates that his lies are not lies in a way Caduceus can discern with a keen eye and a careful glance. They are written in the bone, in the flesh. The body is so corrupted it can no longer tell rot from flower, nor truth from falsehood.

There is no saving this man.

But there may be hope for the others.

Righteous rebellion is the name he gives to the fluttering in his stomach, as they draw Eodwulf - Astrid as well - closer into their circle. A big ol’ middle finger to Trent, as Beau would say. To save someone who sees no way out, from under the nose of a being of impossible strength-

He’s done it before.

So, too, he names the fluttering excitement, and anticipation. Even remembrance, of the way Fjord looked at him, the day he’d given him the Wildmother’s symbol, and Caduceus had almost thought-

But no, he’d thought wrong.

And here he is, ready to make the same mistakes again.

Eodwulf looks at him from across the table. Astrid is down the way, but he never once glances her direction as he asks, “Something not agreeing with you?”

It’s care, in a gruff sort of sense. His deep voice rumbles through Caduceus’s chest, in the way he knows his own does for other people. Yasha sometimes says that it helps her sleep, so he’ll talk the night away, telling nonsense stories until they both drift off.

What would it be like, to curl up in those arms, be held close to that impossibly broad chest? To be small, and large as well - as much as he needs, in whatever direction?

He pushes the thought away.

(Sometimes, he tires of being the one who has to know where the lines are.)

Eodwulf taps his fingers on the table, still looking at him thoughtfully. “I could use some air,” he says, and raises an eyebrow. Caduceus nods, unable to break Eodwulf’s steady gaze, because try as he might, the thought keeps returning, again and again.

They leave together, slipping out into the Rexxentrum night, and the rational part of Caduceus’s mind cries danger, to be separated from his party and alone in the company of their enemy’s servant, and the lonely part cries he wants you, he wants you, in a reckless, unquenchable clamour.

“I know a place,” Eodwulf says, “where it’s a little quiet,” and Caduceus knows the words, and the words beneath. He is not so young, so naive, to miss the subtleties of Eodwulf’s speech.

‘A little quiet’ means to be alone. And to be alone is…

He half expects to be led off to some back alley out of Jester’s tales - for murder or something else, who can say - but the streets Eodwulf takes him by are wide and well-lit. Caduceus’s foreign clothes are noticeable even in the dead of night, and people stop to stare as they pass by, eyes drifting over Eodwulf like a shadow to land on him. His hair, his height, his dress - all abnormalities perused and catalogued, before people resume their nighttime strolls.

It’s not unusual, nor particularly bothersome, to be watched. But one older gentleman stares a little too long, and doesn’t stop staring even after Caduceus dips his head in friendly greeting, and something in the air changes. A hand reaches out and grips Caduceus’s arm, drawing him back into the centre of the street. Eodwulf appears suddenly - though he was always there, Caduceus remembers. It’s just that his presence wasn’t felt, until now.

It must take practice, for a man the size of Eodwulf to disappear. Through magic, Caduceus can manage the same, but it’s more of a reflex - the trigger is fear, and the duration beyond his control. But Eodwulf becomes a shadow, then a looming gargoyle of a man, then a shadow once more, and all of it is done with intention. He doesn’t doubt that the watcher would be dead before Caduceus could blink, if that’s what Eodwulf decided to do.

He grins at Caduceus as the man scurries away, and Caduceus returns the smile faintly, and wonders, who have I let myself follow into the dark?

He finds he knows the answer, and it doesn’t frighten him like it should.

The fluttering returns, moth wings between his ribs beating in time with Eodwulf’s heavy steps - loud and obvious, like they weren’t before. Like a war drum, their march is a warning for anyone else who might darken their path.

See, this is my street to walk. See, this person is under my protection. Hear me, and stay back.

They come at last to their destination: a little park with scattered trees, at the centre of which sits a stone building. Its sides are carved with olive branches and vines, and its doors are shut, and the coldness of death seeps from every crevice, and mingles with the dewy scent of grass and yesterday’s rain.

Eodwulf leads him to a bench, and they sit side by side, listening to the breeze in the leaves, not speaking, though Caduceus still has many things to say. He wants to ask where they are. He wants to know if Eodwulf talked to one of his friends about him, and if that’s the reason he brought him to a mausoleum, instead of some sweeter daytime sight.

He silently wonders if they both feel at home in a graveyard, and if there has ever been anyone else, who looked at one with the same reverence as him.

“It’s quiet here,” Eodwulf answers, as though he had asked, and Caduceus nods.

“It is,” he agrees. There’s nothing more that needs to be said on the matter, and somehow they both know it, without needing words. Eodwulf crosses his arms over his chest and leans back, tipping his head to stare at the stars above, and Caduceus tries to mimic him, but the bench isn’t meant for a person of his stature, and he ends up sitting straight again.

“So,” Eodwulf says, casual enough to tell Caduceus the conversation is about to become anything but. “So, you came.”

“I did,” Caduceus answers, and his voice is steady, but a smile doesn’t find his lips. Eodwulf turns his head, shifting, until the meat of his shoulders is facing Caduceus.

“I’m glad.” The twinkle in his eye is still there, and his lips hold the smile that Caduceus lost, as he shifts again, bringing their knees together. Caduceus swallows. “I thought you looked bored in there.”

“I don’t mind a tavern… but I also don’t drink,” Caduceus answers noncommittally. “So it does get a little dull at times.”

Eodwulf huffs a laugh, and sits back up. “You don’t like meat, and you don’t like drink.” His smile becomes a grin, his arms uncrossing, and Caduceus follows their movement with his eyes, mouth dry as kindling. “Is there anything you do like?”

“Well,” he says, with nothing to come after it. The moth in his chest beats its protest against the silence.

There’s a line here - a line, that he’s meant to keep track of. That he’s not meant to-

“Well?”

And then again, there are fingers in his hair, and then again, there’s a mouth close to his, and warm breath, rich with ale and bread and earthy things, and then again, Eodwulf is confident, and his grin is sure, and maybe-

He doesn’t need to be the only one who knows where the lines are.

Caduceus meets him halfway, and then lets himself be pulled closer, and closer, as fingers tangle in his hair, and broad arms encircle his back. He opens his mouth, and Eodwulf follows, and the wine is sharp on his tongue, for being the first he’s tasted. But the flavour changes, the longer he drinks.

No longer startling in its newness, the feeling melts down to something softer.

A new taste: heavy, and warm, and sweet.

[yoditorian]

The Pancake King

javier peña/reader

yeah i know i said i had no more wip space but then i had a headcanon idea which turned into a note on my phone which turned into,,,,this, which might turn into something else but for now it’s a standalone oneshot that can be read as a sequel to this

main masterlist

word count: 2.5k // warnings: some swears, unnamed boyfriend cheating, food, work stress mentions

This week really, really doesn’t want to give you a break. 

The mountain of paperwork waiting for signatures and stamps only seems to get bigger, obscuring half the office from your little corner desk. Every time you have a moment to get through a few of them, you’re pulled into somebody else’s office for a meeting, or someone needs you to double check one of their own forms, or you have to clean up somebody else’s mess. As usual. 

And then there’s your life outside of work, if you can even call it that. But your air conditioner is broken and the mailman keeps giving your letters to everyone but you, it seems, and it’s too fucking hot during the day to have to deal with any of this shit. 

So you took the day, called in with a fake-cold and promised you’d be back in tomorrow. How much could the office fall apart in just one day? The air conditioning is still broken, but you’d gone out and bought three of the biggest fans you could find. Problem one, sort of solved. The mailman is his own mystery, seemingly vanishing into thin air as soon as you’d spotted him on the sidewalk, at least Connie was in to give you the mail that had gotten mixed up with hers. That, and you’d managed to sneak in some baby cuddles with Olivia. There’s not much you can do about the weather itself, besides wear as little as can be considered publicly decent and pray for the thunderstorm the weather forecast keeps promising is on its way. 

Only, as luck always has it, things get worse. 

You’d called the boyfriend you left back home, just like you do at the same time every Thursday night. And some chirpy woman had answered, introducing herself as his girlfriend. And that was the last straw. 

You can’t even remember what you told her, now. Something about how he could drop the key to your apartment back with your best friend, maybe something along the lines of how he can go fuck himself too. That sounds about right. You’d hung up before she could say anything else. 

It’s just you and the wall now, the television not even good enough company to quiet the stress of literally everything in your life. You’re vaguely aware of your stomach rumbling, although you’re not sure you have the energy to get up and root around in your fridge. You ate the last of the leftovers in there yesterday anyway, and you’re pretty sure everything else involves some kind of preparation. Which you really don’t have the energy for. Sleep, sleep can be your dinner tonight.

Javier and Steve get back from the office at the same time Connie comes trotting down the stairs to leave for a shift. 

“Can one of you check on them?” She asks, pulling on her cardigan to keep off the evening breeze. There’s something in her tone that has Javier’s brow furrowing even further than it usually is, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by either of the Murphys.

“Last time we spoke, I thought they were gonna hit me,” Steve raises his eyebrows in disbelief, a little too dramatically, “This one’s on you, Peña.” 

He’s off up the stairs before Javier can argue that he probably, definitely, is the last on the list of people you want to see if you’re having a bad day. He’s responsible for half the forms waiting on your desk, seemingly doubled over the course of the day. That, and his comforting skills aren’t exactly legendary. Connie, for all her tact, shrugs apologetically at him before she’s leaving too, and he’s left standing in the hall wondering exactly what it is he’s supposed to do now.

He remembers his bad day, the really bad one, a few months ago. How you turned up on his doorstep with homemade nachos and a smile, exactly what he needed before he even knew it himself. He hears his father in his head, waxing poetic about the way that people comfort others is often the way they like to be comforted. And, honestly, who doesn’t like a good meal when everything feels a little bit against them? 

Javier can’t cook, he’s not arrogant enough to pretend that he can make anything off the top of his head. Nor is he certain he has any of the ingredients for anything in the cookbook Steve had bought him as a joke for the Christmas just gone. There is one option though, he just hopes it’s the right one as he starts to pull a frying pan out of the cupboard. 

You’re surprised when there’s a knock at your door and you have to struggle out of your blanket for a minute, your ass numb from sitting on the ground for too long. It’s probably only Connie, checking that you’ve eaten. She’ll see right through your lie but you doubt she’ll push it, only remind you to eat breakfast with a stern look that you know she only pulls out for her most difficult patients. You’re not sure when that privilege extended to you. 

It’s not Connie. 

Javier stands in the light of the hallway, a foil covered plate in his hands, and looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. You start to wish you hadn’t worn your blanket like a cape to answer the door. 

“I, um-” He can’t seem to pick where to look, eyes settling somewhere to the right of your head before he tries again, “You had a bad day.” 

Oh, oh, he really couldn’t have tried harder. It’s an odd parallel of a moment, months ago, when you barged your way into his apartment with nachos and good intentions. There’s an uncomfortable swell of something right under your lungs and you beg it to stay quiet. He gestures with the plate in his hands, the smell of sugar and sweetness wafting out from underneath it, and your stomach gurgles. The sound pulls a giggle from both of you, and things start to feel a lot more comfortable. 

“Welcome to the pit of despair.” You laugh, gesturing for him to follow you in and toward the kitchen. 

You pull your last two clean forks out of the cutlery drawer as Javier sets the plate down on the kitchen table and reveals whatever it is he spent the time and effort to make. Just for you. 

Pancakes.

And, honestly, you couldn’t imagine anything more Javier. He barely leaves the office, and you’re pretty sure you’ve only ever seen him eat outside of his desk when Connie forces him to come to dinner. You can’t stop the smile that slips onto your face, the first one all week if you’re being honest. 

“What?” He asks, taking the fork you offer out to him and settling down in the chair across from you.

“You made me pancakes?” Your voice is smaller than you expect it, the intention of his actions catches in your throat and makes you a little more emotional than you thought it would. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but thinks better of it when you reach out with your fork and rip a chunk out of the stack of frankly perfect looking offerings. 

And they are perfect. Fluffy and light and sweet and wonderful. An odd juxtaposition to their chef, but you don’t think about it. You don’t think about anything, you sit and eat in silence and try to prolong this one moment of peace for as long as you can. 

It ends sooner than you want it to. Every last crumb devoured between the two of you, and suddenly everything doesn’t seem so bad. Pancakes will do that. 

He’’s gathering up the plate and forks before you can protest, moving wordlessly to tackle the pile of dishes that you’ve been ignoring in your sink for the last couple of days. 

Javier can’t help himself when he spots the stack of dishes behind you. You’ve looked like you’re on the verge of crying since you opened the door and if there’s one chore that’ll reduce someone to tears, it’s doing the dishes. So he doesn’t even think about it, just collects the empty plate and pulls the fork out of your hand and gets to work. 

You’re about to protest, tell him something about how you can deal with it, or that it’s late and he should go home, get some sleep. He knows you well enough, and your face when he turns to look at you over the shoulder as the hot water starts running proves as much. Just as you know the no-nonsense look on his face isn’t one you want to argue with. He waits, watching, for you to rise from the table and shuffle back towards the living room, listens carefully for the sound of you flopping onto the couch, before turning back to the sink and getting to work. 

It’s times like these he wishes he asked more questions, then he might know what prompted you to call out with a cold when you’re clearly the picture of health. Physically, anyway. Although sometimes he thinks you could be all kinds of sick, and that little voice in his head would still tell him you’re pretty. If he knew, or had any kind of hunch, he could help a little more than this. Pancakes and dirty dishes only go so far, although he’s never been great at comforting people beyond his cousins’ scraped knees when they were little. It’s not a case of ignoring any time you’ve opened up about your life outside of work, there’s always some part of his brain ready to soak up your every word like a sponge. Maybe it is as simple as that, maybe it’s just work that has gotten a bit too much. Maybe it’s a combination of things.

The dishes are neatly lined up on the drying rack before he even notices he’s finished, fishing around in the bottom of the sink for a full minute until he realises everything has been washed. 

You’re still sitting on the couch when he comes through to the living room, hands dried and clean. You shuffle up to make room for him, having just dumped yourself unceremoniously in the middle of the cushions, and keep your eyes on the dormant television in front of you. You’re expecting him to say something, to tell you it’ll be okay, or that everything will work itself out, or that it probably won’t seem like a big deal in the morning. He’d be right, it probably won’t. But right now, all you can feel is the weight that settled on your chest as the whole of the past week makes itself comfortable. 

You pull the blanket tighter against you, shoulders straining the thin fabric, as if you could squash all your problems until they disappear. But they only seem to get bigger.

“You remember my boyfriend, back home?” You’re quiet, more so than you had been earlier. As if you’re afraid of the words as you speak them.

He does remember. The guy came down to visit once, only a few weeks after you’d been transferred. Steve had done his best to befriend the guy, where Javier hadn’t extended anything beyond a handshake and a raised eyebrow in your direction. Not that he didn’t like him (he didn’t, still doesn’t, but that’s besides the point), but all Javier really remembers is your disappointment come Monday morning when you’d trudged into the office and told them he’d had to leave early. Work emergency. It had smelt like bullshit then, it smells like bullshit now. Still, he nods, and lets you continue.

“Not only mine, turns out.” It all comes out in one breath, and all he can do is watch as you curl even further into yourself. Scumbag. Sure, Javi’s been around the block a little, or a lot, but he’s never stooped so low as to cheat on anybody. He’s above that, at least. 

The barely audible sniffle from under your blanket pulls him right out of thinking of all the ways he could make this guy’s life hell back home, and he sends a prayer up to whoever’s listening that he won’t make it worse with what he’s about to do. 

A soft tug on the corner of your blanket is the only warning you get, and suddenly you’re being pulled across the length of the couch until you’re half in his lap.

“Javi.” You manage, barely hanging on to your composure. You know he knows that, but you don’t know why he won’t leave you to it. 

The look on your face just about breaks his heart. All big watery eyes and confusion, the nickname you so rarely use sounds so soft whispered in the air between you. You’re already beginning to crumble, if only from the way he’s holding you like you’ll shatter with the slightest breeze. Maybe you will.

It’s the tenderness that gets you, in the end. How he seems to just know what you need, far better than anyone else has in a long time. The weight of his arms around you, gentle but firm, makes it suddenly difficult to breathe past the lump in your throat as the tears start to fall. And Javier holds you through it all. Even though you’re both at an awkward angle and you’re pretty sure his leg is trapped underneath you, he doesn’t budge. It’s easy to forget, alongside your easy camaraderie with Steve, that Javier works with you all day every day too. 

It can’t be more than an hour later that he feels you slump against him and your breathing begins to even out, save for the occasional stray hiccup. Something about the way you’ve snuggled into him, head on his chest and fingers fisted in the soft black t-shirt he reserves for cold nights and bad days. A crack of thunder and sudden downpour of rain jolts you as you sleep, sends you even further into his embrace, and he holds you to him a little tighter. It’s nice, oddly. Even though having you so close makes his heart want to burst right out of his ribcage. 

At least the rain sends a welcome gust of cool air through the open bedroom window, swirling down the hall and mercifully circling around the living room. 

Javier tugs the blanket out from around you, just enough to cover the both of you, and shuffles as much as he dares to try and get comfortable. You need the sleep, and he’s not about to take it from you just for the sake of blood flow in his leg. You barely notice when he settles, comfortable even on your old couch and the weight of a grown human on top of him. His back will kill him in the morning, but you’ll have rested better for it and that’s a small price to pay. 

He tries not to think too hard about what that might mean. 

TAGLIST (add yourself here):

@bee-dameron @keeper0fthestars @thevoiceinyourheadx @firstofficerwiggles @1800-fight-me @ew-erin @chatterbean @darnitdraco @greeneyedblondie44

[disapoitment]

Am I about to overanalyse another throwaway gag? Absolutely! This time it's from the classic season one episode, Napoleon Brainaparte.

So, towards the very end of this episode, our poor, beloved mice are about to meet their tragic end. They're threateningly informed that an afterlife awaits them, and as they cower in what they believe to be their final moments, the viewers are given a glimpse into their heads...specifically, what they each imagine heaven to be like. This scene surprised me on my first watch, because it was pretty unexpected. And surprisingly...sweet?

Let's start off with Brain's idea of heaven, which is shown first.

Right off the bat we have him surrounded by a chorus of Pinky angels. This is one of the rebuttals I have for people who doubt Brain cares about Pinky...I mean, if I didn't like someone, I definitely wouldn't include them in my idealised afterlife, nevermind multiple versions of them!

Uh, I digress. The thing I actually want to draw attention to here is the fact that Brain actively desires Pinky in his life (or, afterlife, in this case) and can't imagine existing, in any form, without him. We've seen it time and time again, from the episode "Snowball" to that one story from the comics, but this is one of the earliest, most apparent instances of it in the show. This scene alone proves to the audience that Brain isn't using Pinky to reach his goals, but genuinely sees him as a friend and a companion. And maybe there's an unhealthy splash of codependancy in there.

To take this a step further, an afterlife is commonly portrayed as a sort of perfect world; a place of eternal happiness, even. It's safe to assume from this daydream that Brain subconsciously associates Pinky with the same joy and contentment associated with heaven. We can even interpret this scene as Brain viewing Pinky as an angel, which is not only heart-wrenchingly sweet, but makes a fair bit of sense, all things considered.

After all, though Brain himself tends to shy away from explicit displays of emotions and empathy, he's been established to admire these traits in others. In "TV or not TV", he claims to find Princess Diana (who was well-known for her activism) attractive, and he repeatedly praises Pinky's kind nature throughout the series, even when it directly interferes with a plan. He even sabotages his own plots when Pinky objects for moral reasons, eg "Inherit The Wheeze", and then there's the iconic instance of him DESTROYING his own machinery after tearing up over Pinky's Christmas letter. I believe this is why Pinky is an angel in Brain's eyes: he's compassionate, he's pure-hearted, and he's innocent. Well, innocent in the sense of intention, at least. Pinky represents all the things Brain is too afraid to be himself, lest morality get in the way of his goals.

On top of that, Pinky always stays by Brain's side. He's the only person/mouse who has never left him, hurt him, or betrayed him. It's natural that someone so lonely, cynical and self-loathing as Brain would view his polar opposite as a literal angel...or, even more impactfully, a full chorus of them. Of course Brain's idealised heaven has himself as an angel too, but I'd say that's either his ego coming into play (he's both self-hating and conceited) or just to serve as a visual signifier that he's...um, dead. The flock of Pinky angels is what I'm focusing on here, because the sheer amount of them in comparison to Brain highlights them in this miniature megalomaniac's reverie. And also because it's more interesting to take the analysis in this direction! ♡

Honestly, there's not quite as much I can say about this segment of the scene. Brain is on a throne, so presumably he's imagining himself ruling...heaven? Good for you, Brain!

It's very in-character for Brain to put himself as the centrepiece of his ideal afterlife, and as much as I love this little guy, the angel imagery is obviously ironic. Whether intentional or not, this can be connected to his egotism, as well as his belief that everything he does, no matter how severe or morally corrupt, can be justified by the end goal of ruling Earth and making it a better place. I don't believe that Brain genuinely sees himself as an angel when it comes to his purity, but rather that he thinks all his sins can be forgiven if/when he becomes the "benevolent dictator" (his words, not mine) of the planet...or maybe that's just what he tells himself to be able to sleep at night.

He looks noticeably very content and calm as an angel. I would go off on a tangent about how this is a version of Brain who is finally freed from the burden of his never-ending cycle of failure, and that this suggests that he needs to break out of his world domination obsession to ever be truly happy, but...I'll spare you.

Oh, Pinky. Poor, poor Pinky. He's so selfless that it stings :(

It says a painful amount that in his idea of heaven...he's not even in it. I don't think he hates himself, yet he's so good-natured that he ends up neglecting his own desires for the sake of others. In this scene, he has literally forgotten to include himself in his own idealised world. I hate to say this, but this could be a result of his codependent relationship with Brain. He's so focused on Brain's happiness and goals that his life almost revolves around him at this point, and as I mentioned before, they fall apart without eachother. Pinky pours his heart and soul into helping Brain, partly because he genuinely believes Brain will make the world a better place, and partly because he'd do almost anything for Brain's sake. His love for Brain is so strong that he's the focus of Pinky's own paradise.

What I find significant is Brain taking the role of every single angel in the fantasy. He's portrayed as a sweet and wholesome creature wearing a cute smile, a stark contrast to reality. Even just him being an angel in the first place implies that this is how Pinky sees him. A big part of the latter's motivation to help Brain take over the world, though scarcely mentioned in the show itself, is so it can become a happier, nicer place for everyone. As a determined optimist, Pinky shares the desire to improve the Earth, and so views Brain as a sort of hero, someone surely worthy of a halo and wings.

His view of Brain as a good person can be explained further when we consider that he doesn't mind being bopped (and in some interpretations, downright enjoys it), can shrug off any verbal abuse, and clings onto any snippets of warmth he receives from Brain. The things others would raise their eyebrows at are things Pinky ignores or adores. I think it's safe to say that, overall, Pinky is the type to focus on his friend's positive traits and simply ignore most of the negatives, as seen in "Pinky's Plan" when he gives an extremely sugarcoated description of Brain to the world leaders. Because of all this, in Pinky's mind, Brain truly is an angel. It's bittersweet, really.

And here we have it again. Brain on the throne, ruling. This is all Pinky truly wants—for his friend to be happy, fulfilled and at peace, making whatever world he may rule a better place. There's not an awful lot more to say now, since this is just a repeat of the scene from Brain's fantasy, but I think that's the most heartwarming part. These two mice are working towards the exact same goal, and yet their reasons for doing so are quite different: Brain to rule the world, Pinky to make his friend smile. It's almost poetic in its simplistic beauty. The voice actors said it best when they described the show as a "desperate love story", and the little scenes like this only prove that to me.

Welp, that's all I have to say for now! I haven't reached this hard since I tried to get to the chromatica oreos on the top shelf in Tesco. But this was fun, anyway! Thank you ever so much for reading :'D Your patience must be incredible! 💕

[theheraldsrest]

I know what you did last summer...Hey alex, i got something for you. How would those in the inquisitor's circle react to being called handsome/beautiful out of the blue? Before and or after relationship? Thanks

Inquisitor’s circle being complimented, before/after relationship? Thank you for the ask and I don’t know what you mean by that. Don’t talk to me or my Cabot ever again. (Kidding)

-LordLex

Cullen (Before)

-“Oh, uh, thank you.”

-Doesn’t really know how to take this

-Just thanks you and continues on with his duties

-Not sure why he’s being complimented but is thankful that it’s more sophisticated than most of the ‘compliments’ he receives from Sera

(After)

-“Please, if anyone should be receiving compliments, it’s you.”

-Not the most poetic, but he tells you exactly what he thinks.

-Still not used to it but tries his best to return the compliments.

-The soldiers can tell when you’ve given him a compliment because his face is slightly flushed after talking to you

Josephine (Before)

-“Thank you, Inquisitor! And might I return the kind words and say that you are looking well.”

-Something she’s been through, she’s basically on autopilot

-She accepts it with respect and returns it all the same

-Makes her day to get a compliment from the Inquisitor

(After)

-“You always seem to find the most poetic way to say what you’re thinking.”

-She takes the compliments to heart

-Can always find a new thing to compliment you about, the way your eyes shine or how fluid your motions are

-Of course, that doesn’t stop her from beaming all day

Solas (Before)

-“Thank you. It is much appreciated, Inquisitor.”

-Don't fill the Egg’s head. It’ll just make him more powerful

-Besides that, is happy that someone appreciates him

-Let’s be honest, you get most of his approval by complimenting him on what a big nerd expert he is

(After)

-“You grace me with your words too often, Vhenan. Though, more words could be said about you, truly describing in detail your perfection.”

-This man’s main goal is to make you a flustered mess, and that’s only with complimenting you.

-He will not let you out-compliment him, for every comment you give, he gives you 3 of them.

-You’d think he’d run out of things to say about you. So did Dorian but he gave up listening to your conversation a LONG time ago.

Cassandra (Before)

-“I...Thank you, friend. But what is the purpose of this conversation?”

-Very suspicious as to why you’re complimenting her. Thinks Varric put you up to it.

-Takes a while, but once she knows your true intentions, she does appreciate it

-Might take her a bit to compliment you back, usually about how well of a fighter or leader you are

(After)

-“You shouldn’t say such things out loud for anyone to hear! I’d rather not have Varric quoting you!”

-Very flustered, tries to put her hands over your mouth if you continue

-But when you two are alone, she listens so intently to the words you weave together, speaking of her

-She can only tell you how amazing and wonderful you are, and she means it with all her heart

The Iron Bull (Before)

-“Thanks, boss. You’re not so bad yourself.”

-Man will take anything, even compliments. Gets them constantly by certain admirers

-Will give an equally meaningful compliment back to you

-Sometimes, it’s followed up by a more in-depth detail or how to make it better

-(“Cassasndra, about your fighting-”

“Not again.”)

(After)

-“You know, a compliment like that from anyone else I would’ve just taken it and continued. But from you, kadan? Makes a man ten times stronger.”

-Honestly seems like with every compliment you give him, the worst his enemies have it against him.

-Does not hold back on the compliments, either, so just be ready for when you tell him he looks nice that he returns it with how nice you look being tied up.

-Though it does become a problem when your complimenting him in front of his children the Chargers

-(“Oy, boss! Have I told ya how nice your eyes are, too?” 

“Keep it up, Krem, and you’ll see how nice my swinging arm is.”)

Dorian (Before)

-“Usually nice words are followed up with a favor or a spiteful comment. Which is it this time?”

-After the initial thought that you might be sassing him, he is all ABOUT the compliments

-Agrees full heartedly with each one, with some minor details that he expects you to remember

-Want to make him really appreciate them? Compliment him about his knowledge. Boy has got some big brains

(After)

-“Oh my, whatever will people say about such words you use for me? Amatus, please, I can only take so much kindness.”

-He’s a sarcastic little- but he really does melt whenever you talk about him, complimenting him

-Especially if you start to talk about the little details you see: how his mustache is brushed so perfectly that not one hair can be found out of place, or how enraptured he become when speaking of a subject he finds fascinating

-Not gonna stop him from doing the same but most of the time leads to Solas calling up to you two to ‘get a room’

Sera (Before)

-“Right, ok. What the hell is this?”

-Takes a few times to explain because this is not something Sera is used to

-Thinks your pulling her leg for the most part, doesn’t know how to respond

-When she does, it’s something along the lines of ‘You stabbed that person pretty good’

(After)

-“Heheh! You think that’s nice, Inky? Well, let’s talk about that one time in bed when we-”

-Somebody stop her, please

-Doesn’t matter where you are, who you’re with or what you’re doing. If you compliment this woman, she’s going to ‘attempt’ by talking about everything

-And I mean EVERYTHING. She’s not leaving any details out

Blackwall (Before)

-“What’s all this? I really don’t deserve this praise. But...thank you.”

-Take the nice words, Blackwall, please

-Tries to downplay it, pushes it off or away. This man believes himself to not be good enough for these words

-Stop, you’ll overwhelm him with your appreciation

(After)

-“Thank you, love. The only thing I can say to that is you are stunning as ever.”

-Still not used to it, but coming from you? Worth it

-Truly knowing him and still complimenting him? He’s even more in love than he was from the start

-This is something he can get used to

Sorry for long post! Hope you enjoy!

[writefightandflightclub]

“One word from you and I will jump off of this ledge I’m on, baby.” - First Love / Late Spring (Mitski)

Pairing + genre: Santiago “Pope” Garcia x reader. Hurt / comfort + angst.

Summary: Santi is the sorta man who keeps his promises, and he promised to be there for you always and forever. All you have to do is say the word.

Author’s note: this one hurt me. Word count: 6k (SORRY!)

Warnings: panic attack  / aftermath = a major / central theme. Allusions to prior trauma (non-specific). One mention of blood. ANGST.

“This is a man who keeps his oaths, his promises. To his country, to his friends. One word is all it takes, and Pope will be there for you in a heartbeat. He isn’t the kind of man to let a team member down, and, believe me, once you’re on his squad? You’re on it for life. Forever and always.” - Frankie Morales

Years of cruel awakenings in the military had made Pope an especially light sleeper. Luckily, out here in the suburbs, he was significantly less likely to be awoken with a grenade through the window. So, when his cell phone rings, wresting him rudely from slumber, he almost allows himself to be blasé about it. To just hit the red button and turn over.

But it’s still pitch dark. Too late -or too early- for this wake-up call to be something routine. So, Pope’s arm pokes out from beneath the covers as he fumbles blindly for his phone. He brings it to his ear wordlessly, voice still grogged by sleep. If he expects anything at all, it’s for the caller to be Catfish - drunk and checking-in on his sorry ass again.

“Santi?”

Instead, it is your panicked voice -swaddled in tell-tale signs of danger- which slices through the dark like the blade of an enemy combatant, yanking Pope harshly from his haze. Flinging off the coiled ropes of sleep, he is instantly firing on all cylinders, his body responding in much the same way as he might to enemy fire; preparing to counter a threat. To eliminate whatever is hurting you, with as much speed and precision as possible.

“Shit. I’ll be right there.”

Pope throws the covers off and he’s already awake and moving, even before he can comprehend exactly what’s wrong. He knows enough. He knows that something is wrong. And he knows he’s going to be there for you, like he promised he always would be.

He tugs on his nearest sweats and tumbles through his house in the dark, adrenaline pumping through him as he barrels his way across the landing, stubbing his toe more than once on the strewn piles of unpacked boxes. Pope’s breath seethes through his teeth and he curses, momentarily wondering if he’s grown soft since he was discharged; he could swear bullet wounds never used to slow him down as much as a big toe clipped on the corner of a box.

Continuing to shake the remaining webs of sleep from his head -and actually remembering the layout of his new house- Pope presses on. He throws himself down his staircase, missing the last five stairs. He is straining to decipher your words on the other end of the line all the while, to little avail.

He speedily wrestles on a jacket and scoops his car keys out of the bowl by his front door, quickly toeing on odd shoes before he scrambles from his house and slots himself behind the wheel of his truck. Pope’s heart is hammering blood around his body as he slots his cell into the car phone holder and powers the car down his driveway, all less than a minute from waking.

He’s a mess of worry as he hears you cry blearily through the speaker, and he bridges his fingers against his forehead in frustration when he can barely interpret a single word of it.

“Cariño, listen. I’ll be right there. You at home?”

All he can make out is a “no” and “driving” and not much else, and he panics.

“Fuck.”, he curses, under his breath, as he realises he’s not going to get anything useful out of you in your current state.

Pope sucks air in through his teeth with frustration. He can’t eliminate the threat if he doesn’t know what it is, and there’s nothing Santi finds more terrifying than not knowing what he’s up against. Nothing more terrifying than being unable to execute a plan. To fix a problem with lethal precision.

“Just sit tight, okay? Just stay there. I’m coming to you, cariño.”

He pulls up a tracker app to establish where you are, and he puts pedal to the metal, driving far faster than he should. There’s no way he’s going to let a speed limit or some pesky stop lights stand between him and getting to you as quickly as possible.

Following directions to your location, Santi eventually finds your truck strewn in the middle of an intersection, door flung open. It looks reminiscent of something from out in the field, as if you’ve been strewn from your vehicle by a blast.

As Pope pulls around, his eagle eyes immediately locate your shadowed form crouching on the lip of the sidewalk, face buried to your knees. He parks abysmally, his heart throbbing, and legs it over to you, his movements tactical and efficient.

When he reaches you, Pope crouches down in front of you without a care for those bad knees of his. When he reaches you, everything ceases to be tactical or lethal. Everything about him is suddenly soft and haphazard, and he’s pawing gently at you and looking over you for any harm, examining your eyes for clues as you regard him like a sheepish animal.

You don’t appear to be physically hurt, but your skin is sheening, your face tear-stained, hands trembling and eyes glassy. 

“Sweetie. Hermosa, look at me. What happened?” Pope asks, his voice both soothing and insistent as he gingerly tips your head upward with his strong hand to search your vacant eyes.

You don’t answer though, and so, recognising the aftermath of a likely panic attack -knowing how they manifest for you- Pope comes to sit behind you on the sidewalk edge, slotting his legs either side of the trunk of your body and wrapping you firmly in the circumference of him. He pulls you tightly to his chest, bundling your clammy arms and hands into his embrace.

Pope shushes and soothes and rocks you. He brushes your hair back from your sweaty face. He lets your tears fall wet on to his hands as he clasps them in front of you. And through it, Pope does his best to present a picture of calm, despite his terror at seeing you so distressed. He forces his breathing to remain slow and deep and steady, until your own stunted breaths are somewhat in sync with the rise and fall of his chest against your back.

“I got you. You’re safe,” he mumbles into your hair, into the crook of your neck, hooking his head over your shoulder, all stubble and grizzled curls nuzzling up against you. “You’re safe. You know that, cariño?” He soothes, encourages. “Tell me yes, baby. Come on.”

“Yeah,” you finally push out, voice scrubbed clean. 

The inflection of your voice hurts Santi. Boy, does he know that feeling. Your voice sounds strung out; tense, and spread thin. Somehow you sound on high alert, burning and raw... but at the same time, empty and numb. Like a shocked, ravaged fruit, scooped-out.

It manifests differently for Pope -nightmares mainly- but he knows. He understands. You’d both done more than your share of dark things that insisted on following you out from the military. The resulting pain had always been a bedfellow lying under the covers between you, pushing you further and further apart as it nuzzled its way into your chests, causing hearts to crash and ribs to bruise like roll cages.

“You’re ok, sweetie. You’re doing good.”, he reminds you. “That’s it.”

You’re still tense against him, all of your muscles stacked and coiled like an angry snake, your legs bouncing agitatedly; yet at the same time there is no intention in your body. You are aimless. Firing on all cylinders but with no target - nothing in your sight. No tangible threat to eliminate.

Pope knows all too well that the most elusive enemy of all is the kind in your head. Still, your breaths become slower, more level. And now that your physical symptoms appear to be calming, body levelling, Santi tries his best to bring your mind back too. Tries to ground you in everything real and tangible. 

“Focus up for me, ok? You know the drill. What can you smell?”

You are silent, and he gives you a gentle jostle in his arms. He wishes he could see your face properly, but you are still staring dead ahead. 

“Come on, hermosa. Try for me.”, he pleads, and something must finally reach you.

When your voice finally comes, to Pope it’s like the first bloom of spring after a long winter.

“I can smell peach trees. Balmy air. Gasoline.”

He finally unclenches a little himself, as you begin talking. “Good. What can you see?”

Your hair brushes against his neck as you subtly swivel your head around the scene. “Grey. Asphalt. A badly parked car. But also... spring. Buds and blades of grass peeking through the cracks.”

Santi similarly scans his eyes around the intersection and empty lot in your view. “Shit. You’re fuckin’ poetic, baby.” He would have just said trucks. Maybe would’ve recited a few number plates he’d accidentally memorised already - old habits die hard.

Pope smiles softly to himself as he is reminded of the way you see things. Differently. More softly. You always saw him more softly. You didn’t see him as a killer. You saw the buds peeping through the cracks. You loved him like spring.

“You’re doing good, cariño. Keep it up. What can you hear?”

“Your voice. The hum of the pylons against the hot, damp air.”

Santi is calm, practically mesmerised by you as you speak. He swallows thickly, as he holds you against him. “What can you feel?”

You take a deep breath then, before speaking, your chest straining against his circling arms as your rib cage expands. Your voice is fuller when it flows from your lips, and it is only then - finally, that you sink into him, allowing relief to take you. “I can feel you.”

“You back with me, huh? Come on, keep going. Let’s finish this.”, he encourages, his breath billowing over the back of your neck.

“I can feel... my heart in my chest, the air on my face. Wet tears there. Your warm skin on mine, and your body sturdy against me. Your breath warm, your stubble rough on my neck. The hairs on your arms tickling against me. I can feel the metal bobbles of your chain digging into the flesh of my shoulder.”

Your hands start to slip over Pope’s arms and hands as you become more and more grounded, seeking out more textures. Touch always grounds you like nothing else.

The more grounded you become - the more your touch skims over him- the more Pope rises, swept away like spring blossoms on balmy air, sweet and helpless. Then, your fingers skim over his watch, running over its glassy face. Over the ridges of his knuckles. You stop abruptly when you reach the cool, smooth wedding band on his ring finger.

Pope tries not to let his heart break into pieces as you pause, rotating the ring ever so slightly between your fingertips. 

Grounded, back to yourself, you swivel your head towards Pope, turning to where his face nestles at the junction of your shoulder. “I feel... safe,” you say, bringing your palm up to the side of his face, your stare no longer vacant like a house with empty windows, but lit with the soft glow of home.

You’ve come back to him, and you’re inviting him in. 

“You are safe. I’ve got your six, ok?”

“I know you do. And I’ve got your zero through twelve.”

Pope smiles sentimentally, as you recite your old phrase, the feeling bittersweet like unripe peaches.

How he wishes you would really come back to him. Invite him in.

Pope narrows his eyes fondly at you. You have mascara streaking down your cheeks. Tear-plumped eyes. And you’re beautiful. He could kiss you. Wants to. But this moment is not about his comfort, so, instead, he presses his palm over yours and asks you gently:

“Can you tell me what happened?”

He feels you stiffen slightly against him.

“Take your time.”, he soothes, running his fingers up and down your arms, absent-mindedly dipping his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling your perfume. Light notes of first loves and late spring. 

“It’s dumb,” you say, leaning your head back on to his chest. “I was driving home from...”, you appear to cut yourself off, snapping your lips shut, and it is only then that Santi properly clocks your attire.

Oh. Okay. Well, shit.

That’s a “date” dress if ever he saw one.

He wants to either fight or to retreat. To take some action, deploy some strategy. He wants to beg you to be with him instead. He wants to. But he tries to swallow his heartache down. This isn’t a time for his pain. So, he simply buries it right down with all the rest; shutting himself off. Eyes becoming vacant windows. 

“And then what?” he prompts softly, neutrally, giving you an easy way to bridge the glaring gap in your story.

“Nothing. It was nothing.” You shake your head disbelievingly as you recall it. “A car backfired behind me. It became bullets,” you continue, voice monotone, brow troubled, eyes searching like the sweep of headlights. “Tires screeching became screams. The stop light glaring down on my hands, became red like blood.” You shrug, tugging in a long breath only to huff it out in frustration, voice hollowed-out again. “Then, I was back there, Santi. I was right back there. I’m such a fucking cliché.”

Pope smooths his hands over your shoulders as he feels your muscles recoil against him. This is one of the times he doesn’t envy your poetry, at all. When your trauma is a scribe which can translate everyday things into a metaphor for your pain. All Pope can offer is to look at you with comprehension. Understanding. It’s no use telling you it wasn’t real. He knows how real it can feel, in the moment. All he can do is gently kiss your hair. Hold you a little tighter. Be here for you, like he promised.

Pope wishes he could take all this pain from you. If there was a way, he gladly would. In a heartbeat. But a fine job he did of that; when he was with you, he had only seemed to hurt you more.

He shakes the clingy webs of pain from his own mind. The nightmares clawing at him sometimes even while waking. “Then what?” Santi probes gently.

“I guess I got out of the truck. Parked like a shithead. And that’s when I called you.”

You twist your head back towards him, nipping your lip guiltily between your teeth in realisation. “I’m so sorry. It’s so late.”

Pope’s face becomes pinched and he looks down at the asphalt. “Don’t apologise,” he says sincerely. “I promised you always and forever. I still mean that.”

Gratefully, seemingly overcome with broiling emotion, you press a chaste, sentimental kiss to Pope’s lips, even as other more broken promises linger and mingle in the air between you.

With the shock of your lips on his, Pope finally stands, helping you delicately to your feet with him. “You wanna walk it off or shall we drive straight home?” Well, shit. It’s not his home anymore. “I mean, I’ll drive you... you know what I mean,” he trails off, sheepishly. 

You fold your arms over yourself, separating from him. But still you say warmly: “Can we go home, Santi?”

He looks at you, forcing his eyes to remain warm and soft. Guarding the perimeter of his heart. Refusing to let the pain creep in. Still, he knows a late frost can kill off those shoots which dare to venture out into the fickle sunlight. He won’t let happiness bloom either.

Instead, he wraps one sturdy arm around you -giving your shoulders a squeeze- and nods, insisting he’ll be right back with you as soon as he’s parked your truck up “less like a shithead”. He promises to swing by and collect if for you later but for now, you bundle into his truck and he leans across you to clip you securely into the passenger seat.

Then, Pope drives. Much more calmly than he had en route to you, keeping the movements of the car as soporific as possible as he winds through the quiet, dimly lit suburbs.

Every now and again, his eyes flick over to check on you. Your head is turned away from him, as you watch the dark scenes slip by the black hole of the window pane.

“You don’t have to watch me, Santi,” you say softly. “I’m okay.”

He swears you must have eyes in the back of your head. Or maybe you know him too well.

“Mm-hmm,” he says, dubiously.

You turn towards him then and stupidly he looks away, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road rather than looking at you directly. As if he might turn to stone if he your eyes meet his. 

God, he wants to look at you. He’s missed your face far too much to waste so much time not looking.

“I’m okay.”, you insist again.

“I know,” he says softly. Not with any pity, mind; only empathy. Pope’s good with other people’s pain. It’s his own he can’t get a handle on. Too much baggage to carry.

“I really thought I had it under control.”, you say, your prior conviction wavering.

His eyes flick to you then, your gazes finally meeting and sparking like the switch to a warm, porch light. Familiar. Instantly warm.

“You did, until you didn’t,” he says plainly. “And you will again.”

You throw your hand on to Pope’s thigh to deliver a grateful squeeze, but then you’re looking out of the window again. As if you can’t have too much of him at once; can’t give too much of yourself at once. Can’t open up all your rooms lest you might invite him in to stay. Keep him distant like a guest in the parlour. Keep your head turned as if you’re walking away from him and you can’t look back, only ahead. Don’t invite him into your bed.

With a sigh, and a bridged hand rasping over the stubble at his clenched jaw, Pope pulls the truck into your driveway, engine gently humming until he slips the key out of the ignition.

He pats your thigh this time, to break your stare out of the black hole of the window. You look back at him wistfully. “Come on then, drama queen.”, he teases, boldly, his heart thrilling when the faintest ghost of a smile glints in your eyes.

Pope opens up the front door and leads you upstairs, following the familiar route to the master bedroom. He guides you to the edge of the bed, with a broad hand on the small of your back, and settles you down before flicking on the bedside lamp, a soft glow pooling in the room. Then, he gets down on his bad knees again to ease off your shoes.

His eyes flick around. Pope is always observing. Now he’s observing your life without him. He glances over to your tented paperback on the bedside table. He guesses you’ve started sleeping on his side of the bed since he’s been gone, then? He decides to push that hurt down with all the rest as he wonders vaguely if that was to feel closer to him. His face becomes taut.

“Santi?” you breathe, sucking his attention back as he kneels in front of you, and he deliberately softens his face. Your hands are pressed firmly down on your thighs, as if you need to weigh them down. As if your hands could so easily rise up to wind in his curls, like a spring breeze through a mess and flurry of cherry blossoms. You always saw something fresh in him. Saw poetry. Always saw what was possible, rather than the winters he had weathered.

You were always looking ahead. Oh, how he’d tried to look with you. To believe that he could still bloom. But that summer never came. He was simply glimpses of buds through cracks, never flowering.

“You wanna take a bath?”, Pope asks, throwing up the words like a shield, standing up stiffly. 

You nod slowly. “Yeah. That sounds nice. My muscles hurt.”

“Ok.”, he says, as brightly as possible. “I’ll draw you a bath, Princesa. And I’ll make you some warm lemonade while the water’s running. We got lemonade?”

Shit. He said it again. “We.”

Old habits die hard.

He supposes he can forgive himself the mistake, as he’s here with his home, in his house.

Shit. Your house. It’s your house now.

So, Pope potters busily around your house and sees to what you need, seeing ghosts of his own happiness and pain as he ambles from room to room. Trauma penning dark poetry across everyday scenes.

An apparition of you dancing to Metallica in the kitchen while you cook up pancakes. An image of you splayed out across the couch as you snuggle down, smile broad, ready for a day of watching Disney movies with him, arms outstretched to tug him in to your embrace. 

The kitchen floor where you’d had The Talk. Where you’d cried together for hours, backs up against the cabinets and knees drawn in to your chests until you’d finally decided. Decided that it hurt so much to be with him, that the inconceivable hurt of being apart would somehow feel like relief. Pope could never forgive himself for that. For hurting you that much. All he’d ever tried to do was keep his pain away from you, but it had still found you. It had snook around his perimeter and taken you down.

Always a killer. Always lethal.  Would he ever be anything else?

Pope’s pain flares again now but he pushes it down. Pushes it down again. Pushes it down. And he pads almost serenely up the stairs, coming to your aid. Coming to your aid, like always.

He lets you have a few sips of the warm, sugary lemonade. An old custom to steady the nerves after such a draining event - without resorting to hard liquor, at least. Once you’ve had plenty, Pope bends and lifts you from your perch on the bed, unceremoniously carrying you, bridal style, to the en suite. He sets you gently down by the edge of the tub.

Still not seeming entirely like yourself -still shaken and likely completely sapped from the earlier onslaught- Pope takes matters into his own hands.

“Okay, first things first, Winter Soldier,” he grins gently, taking in your mascara-smudged eyes. “Where’s that bottle of oily shit you rub on your face?”

You smile tentatively, grasping a bottle from the bathroom counter. “I can do it,” you state.

“I know, but you don’t have to, Princesa. Just let me take care of you.” Gently, but insistently, Pope takes the bottle from your hands and grabs a handful of those cotton rounds he’s watched you use before. He asks you to sit on the edge of the tub and tip your face-up to him, and he wipes the mess away from you as best he can.  

Once he’s disposed of the cotton rounds and rinsed his hands, he turns back to you, asking reverently, “Can I help you get your dress off?”

He sees mild apprehension flash across your face at the thought of him undressing you. He’d hate more than anything to make you uncomfortable. After all, just because he’s seen you naked before doesn’t mean he’s entitled to now. So, he waves his finger in the air mysteriously before receding into the bedroom.

Pope returns momentarily, with a big, loose nightshirt from your sleepwear drawer, gathering the material in his fingers until it forms a loop he can ease on over your head.

“You with me, cariño?” he asks. “Do that magic fuckin’ thing. Whip your bra out of your sleeve.”

Catching his gist, you let the shirt fall over you, shimmying yourself out of your dress and underwear whilst preserving your modesty. Pope offers an arm to hold you steady as you step one leg and then the next out of your clothing, respectfully averting his gaze all the while. Then, his arm steadies you as you step over the edge of the tub and into the warm, welcoming water.

For a moment, you don’t lie down. You just stand there. You look so vulnerable in that moment that Pope can’t help but reach out for your hand to grip in his. He watches in earnest as a question rises on your lips.

“Will you stay with me?” you ask him in the smallest of voices, clutching his hand tightly.

“What do you think I’m doing, hermosa?” he whispers, his eyes kind and smiling.

With that, your eyes brim with grateful tears. But you evidently feel free to crouch and then stretch yourself out in the tub. You submerge yourself fully for a moment in the warm bubbly depths, the stirring water wafting aromatic scents of spring around the room.

Pope watches as you dip yourself and arise from out of the water like a mermaid, your hair slicked back from your face and your soaked t-shirt clinging to your skin. 

“Mi sirenita,” Pope breathes affectionately, suddenly unable to push it all down.

He loves you, and old habits die hard.

“Santi?” you suspire, water droplets beading on your eyelashes like diamonds.

“Yeah?” Pope asks with apprehension, feeling like he’s about to stray out of secure territory.

“Get in with me?”

Santi hesitates, rasping his hand over his stubble again. Wishing he had his baseball cap to pull down over his eyes to obscure his emotions. For real? You want him to climb into the tub with you?

Pope examines your eyes for any sign of danger. Of hunger. But you simply look like you’re hurting. Like you need him. And Pope will always be there when you need him. He doesn’t know another way.

“Sure,” he gives in with a nod of his head, voice soft. “Make some room behind you.”

You oblige, folding your knees so he has room to slip in. Pope kicks off his shoes and -still in his t-shirt and sweatpants- plunges into the water. His clothes quickly become clingy and heavy with wetness, but he slots himself in behind you, wrapping his arms like he had on that sidewalk, and you languish your head back on his firm yet comfortable chest.

You both recline there wordlessly, until you seem entirely calm. Until all the bubbles have burst, and the water starts to feel cold. You both lie there as long as you possibly can.

Eventually, you wrap your arms around yourself too, your hands coming to rest on top of Pope’s. Your touch traverses absent-mindedly over his fingers, his knuckles, and again, inevitably over his wedding band.

Pope can feel the questions almost writhing their way out of your body, like coiled snakes. More than likely, you’re about to ask him why he still wears it. Why his sorry ass can’t seem to think about ever taking it off. Still, as you tug in a breath to launch your words, it suspires out of you as wordlessly as it arrived. Perhaps you’d felt him tense against you and decided to spare him the humiliation. Perhaps you didn’t want to hear his answer.

A few minutes later, when you eventually find the inclination to speak again, the words launched on your breath aren’t questions at all. Your hands skim over his arms, your fingertips pruning and wet, your bathtub touch slick and kissing whelks on to his skin.

“I... I wanted to take care of you too. But you wouldn’t let me.” You pause momentarily, breath caught in your chest as if you’re awaiting retaliation. When all you get back is silence, you take that as license to continue, your voice achingly small and trembling. “I worry that you stopped fighting for us because you didn’t believe you were worth fighting for. And, Santi, mi alma, I just need you to know that you were always good enough. You were never too broken for me. I wanted to take care of you, and I just...” You pause to huff air out between your lips, like you’re about to deliver a punch, or maybe like you’re preparing to be struck by one. “...Even if it doesn’t end up being me. Please, let someone take care of you next time, okay?”

Pope stills against you as your fingers worry over his. He feels like his heart has risen into his throat and that he’s choking on it. He feels like everything he has pushed down for so long is fighting to burst out. He lifts his hands away from yours to palm the tears from his face, very suddenly realising how cold the water has gone.

But he still can’t find the words to name his pain. Now is when he envies your poetry. Pope only knows how to use his words a shield, or to attack. He doesn’t know how to make flowers out of them.

“Ok, come on, sugar. Time to get out, ok?”

You shift forward, folding in on your knees, and Pope is staring at the back of your head again, as if his love for you only exists now in a house of mirrors. You’re looking ahead, to the next time, the next love, and yet he is still lost. Still stuck. He can’t find a route out of his pain.

He couldn’t be who you needed. Even when all you’d needed this whole time was him. He couldn’t even be that. He’d shut himself down. Shut himself off from you because he thought his pain would wreck you. And that was the thing that had wrecked you, in the end; that he was gone. Trapped in a house of mirrors. Vacant behind his eyes, which has used to glow like warm, familiar porch lights. He wouldn’t let you in. He wanted to. But he couldn’t find the door.

You heave yourself out of the tub and finally spin towards him. He sees the tears on your own cheeks too. “Yeah. Time to get out,” you intone glumly.

Pope knows you’re not only talking about the tub. It’s time. To finally look ahead.

You offer him your hand and he emerges from the water, his clothes sodden.

“¿Si soy una sirena? Tu eres Flounder.” The atmosphere is too heavy to laugh, but you tentatively chew on a fond smile. “What are you gonna wear now, idiota?” you ask.

“Shit, I didn’t think this through,” Pope admits, then looks at you quizzically when he registers your playful words. “Pero yo soy Sebastian, por supuesto. ¡No soy ese pececito feo!”

Your smile expands, just a little. “I still have some of your old stuff. Don’t be mad - I kept that Metallica t-shirt, for one.” 

“Fuckin’ knew it,” Pope chides, eyes shining softly.

You squeeze his hand and disappear momentarily to find him some clothes, turning away as you both towel off and dress side-by-side.

“Ok, well I better leave you to it.” Pope suggests abruptly, if only to shield himself. You seem better. Happier. He should leave before his own pain drags you down again. Or before he lets himself feel happy. 

“Stay, Santi. Let’s just be broken together, for a minute.”

He looks at you, pained, as if you’re being cruel to him, his heart fluttering like a bird in his rib cage.

“Please?” you beg in a broken, resigned voice. Scooped-out, wringing your hands together. “It feels like the end...” your face scrunches up as you bite back tears “...so please just stay one more time. Just lay on your side of the bed, and fall asleep next to me? Please.”

Pope tries to remember all the bullet wounds he’s suffered, because he could swear this hurts more. He could swear he’s bleeding out as you plead with him. As you talk about this ending. Pope always called you “mi Vida”, so it’s no wonder that your words feel like death; like the cruellest kind of poetry.

As he faces you, Pope’s blood is pounding in his body like he’s getting ready to run. When did you start to feel like a threat? Weren’t you on the same team?

“Santi.”

Still, one word from you, and Pope can’t refuse.

“Okay,” he agrees. Anything for you, even if it hurts him. “Go ahead and get under the covers.”

You oblige and he flicks out the light before coming to lie next to you on top of the duvet. On “his side” of the bed.

“I’m right here,” he breathes, his words like flowers as he throws an arm over the shadowed form of you. 

One word from you and Pope is there. No matter what you need.

But when it comes to his own pain? The pain that was always a shadowed bedfellow between you? Pope can’t find the words. He doesn’t have your poetry. He can’t imagine the possibility of healing. Of blooming.

Being stalked by a threat he can’t name? Can’t give form to? Nothing scares Pope more than a target he can’t fight, because if he can’t fight it, how in the hell can he protect you from it? How could he protect you from his pain? From all of his bullshit?

One word from you and Pope would jump.

He would jump off of that ledge he’s on and fall right into your love again. He would love you like he did in late spring. When the air had smelled like peaches.

Pope would do it differently this time. He would let things bloom. Or, he would at least try. He would try to find the words, like you always do.

He wishes. He wishes you would invite him back in. Wishes you would say the word. But nothing ever comes.

You’re already falling asleep by his side, maybe for the last time.

So, instead, Pope’s gone by the time morning comes. You find his ring laid out on your dresser, along with a note.

“Mi vida. I’m here for you any time of the day or night. Always and forever. Siempre te querré, mi alma. I know I fucked some things up, but I sure as hell don’t need a ring to keep that promise. Santi xxx xxx P.s. Me llevé mi camisa Metallica - I’ll have Frankie drop it back to you, cariño. Looks better on you anyway. xxx xxx.”

Maybe one day Pope would learn to accept that some things are messy. That not everything can be solved with precision. That sometimes, instead of trying to fix everything, it’s okay to be broken; together.

Pope had broken many promises to you along the way, when he became the soldier who had stopped fighting. But there was at least one he could keep.

If you need him, he’ll be there for you.

Always and forever.

************************

“This is a man who keeps his oaths, his promises. To his country, to his friends. One word is all it takes, and Pope will be there for you in a heartbeat. He isn’t the kind of man to let a team member down, and, believe me, once you’re on his squad? You’re on it for life. Forever and always.

How am I doing so far, boys? Doing okay? Yikes. I’m nervous. Okay.

That’s how I know -yeah, I’ve got this- that you two are going to make it work. Because Pope doesn’t know how to let people down, not once they’re on his team. He keeps fighting, no matter what.

He’s the kinda guy you want watching your six. Once he is, you’ll never look back, and you shouldn’t. Because you two are a team now, and everything is ahead of you. You’re a team for life.

Husband and wife.

And you know what my absolute favourite thing about all of this is? Mi hermano. You have found a woman who has your back too.

Todos, you know what she replies when Pope says “I’ve got your six”? She says “I’ve got your zero through twelve”. Isn’t that a-fucking adorable? Even if it is tactically questionable. Jejejejejeje. (I know, I know, laughing at my own jokes.) So, man. Pope. Santiago. I know you can be a stubborn ass, but let her take care of you too, okay?

You deserve it, hermano. I love you.

So, cheers, to the bride and groom. By the way... I don’t know how Pope bagged this one ‘cause she’s way out of his league... For real. But... Oh shit, where was I? Oh yeah, that’s it.... thank you, Tom. You finally came in useful. Jejejejejeje.

Yeah. Cheers, to the bride and groom.

You’re not soldiers anymore, and you don’t need to follow orders. Only your hearts. (Damn right you’re crying. I pulled out all the stops for this, you sap.) But, my dear, dear friends. You don’t technically need to fight anymore, but may you always keep fighting.

Stay with me...

Keep fighting for each other. If you do that, I know you two are destined for a lifetime of happiness. I know we tease you for being a sap and being whipped but honestly, my man, your love? The two of you, together as a team? It’s beautiful, bro.

That’s squad goals right there.

And, Princesa? Pope’s knees might give out imminently. (We have a sweepstake that they’ll give out during the first dance. Jejejejejejeje.)

But his love for you? Chiquita, that ain’t ever gonna quit.

(You ready for this?)

Just like that man’s ass!

Woo! Yes- fuckin’ killin’ this speech, right? Not a dry eye in the house. Pope’s bawling like a mother fuckin’ baby. (Sorry for the language, abuela.)

Right, what was I saying? Thanks, Tom. Getting some mileage out of you today. Makes a fuckin’ change. Jejejejejejejeje.

I was saying, chiquita, that... wow. This man’s love for you? That’s always and forever. And I know, I know he’ll keep that promise. Because Pope is the kinda man who keeps his promises.”

~ Excerpt from Frankie “Catfish” Morales’ triumphant best man speech, on the happiest day of your life. The day you married Santiago Garcia. 

***********************

You awake, and you roll Pope’s ring in between your fingers.

“¿Santi, mi corazón? Ven a casa. Come home.”

You wish he would come home.

Most of all, you wish you could find the courage to say the word.

THE END

Want more? Here’s my first Santi one-shot, which has angst and smut: Ride or Die.

I write for Poe (my main man), Santi, Nathan, Evgeni, Finn. Masterlist here. 

Feedback in an ask or comment will make my day.

Thank you for reading!

Tagging (let me know if you wanna be added / removed from Santi tag-list!)

@darksideofclarke @yougottakeeponkeepinon @damerondjarin @mandoplease @tintinwrites @mylifeliterally @shakespeareanwannabe  @woakiees​ @demigod-dragonrider-schoolidol​ @damndamer0n​ @itsamedeemoney​ ​ @spider-starry​ @starryeyedstories​

[firelord-frowny]

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! whenever i’m watching any sort of ~talk show~ that discusses married or previously married straight couples who wound up having shitty marriages full of arguing and disrespect and cheating,

i swear it almost aallwwwaaaayyyys happens to be the case that, upon being asked why the dude partner fell in love with/married the lady partner, 

he waxes poetic for like a solid 90 seconds about her appearance.

~she was the most beautiful girl i ever saw, she had long blond hair, she was slender and curvy in all the right places, her smile lit up a room, she looked like a movie star, i took one look at her and i knew i had to have her~ 

and i’m like????

🤮🤮🤮🤮🤮🤮🤮🤮🤮

this is why any dude that tries to flirt/ask me out upon just meeting me gets a HARD NO. clearly physical attraction is disproportionately high on your list of requirements you’d like your significant other to meet. literally, if you’re willing to invest special time and energy into someone PURELY because you think they’re hot, then i want nothing to do with you! i mean, i wish you the best, and i hope you do stumble onto some Hot Lady who happens to also have other qualities that you find you love, but i ain’t even a LITTLE BIT interested in that. 

and then like, once the divorce/trouble in paradise starts up, the dude alllwwaaaays complains about incompatible lifestyles, or in other words, she has 0 intention of doing any of the things he’d like his partner to do. like bruh, just because she has Big Boobs doesn’t mean she’s gonna want you to titty fuck her. just because she’s beautiful doesn’t mean she shouldn’t still Go Out to hang with her friends at clubs or whatever lest she be Looked At by other men. if you don’t want your lady going out and having a good time with the gals, maybe find a lady who doesn’t enjoy those kinds of activities in the first place??? they’re out there. 

and soooo many of these men who hate the fact that their wife has an active social life that includes bars or clubs...

MET HER AT A BAR OR A CLUB!!! howthefuck you gonna meet somebody at a location you both clearly enjoy spending time at, and then expect her to not want to spend time there anymore now that she’s your wife??? 

AND AS FOR THE WOMEN, 

when they’re asked about why they married the dude, it’s always 

~he was so charming, he said all the right things, he gave me so much attention, he told me i was beautiful, he said i was the woman of his dreams~ blah blah blah. gushing over these qualities that, unbeknownst to them but PAINFULLY OBVIOUS TO ME, were just part of a ploy to get her to want to be around him without going through the actual effort of getting to know one another.

And when the relationship starts falling apart, she almost always cites his sudden lack of interest in spending time with her as one of her main reasons for being unhappy in the relationship. which like, DUH!!! girl, this nigga spent like 2 years buttering you up with vague, low-effort ~prince charming~ tropes that had nothing to do with giving a shit about your actual personality and values, reeled you in, installed you into his life like a fucking household appliance that he can just forget about when he’s not using it, and now you’re shocked that he’s an aloof asshole???? 

@ men, maybe bother to make sure that your partner is more than just Smokin Hot before you devour the next several years of her life and make her miserable??

@ women, maybe require that your partner be more than just ~charming~?? maybe start hanging out with some actual Interesting People so you’ll be able to learn the difference between soulless pickup lines and Actual Conversation???

maybe??? 

like wow, any boring ass materialistic idiot can be ~charming~ for a few months. 

legit, i remain convinced that the type of man who pursues these kinds of relationship is literally incapable of experiencing actual romantic love. the extent of their desire for a wife doesn’t go beyond just wanting to have a housekeeper that he can put his dick in. 

like, you realize you can just hire an actual housekeeper, right??? you can just hire a housekeeper and then feel free to fuck scores of consenting beautiful women. 

[vampiresuns]

Something Wicked This Way Comes | Prologue, Part 1

✴︎ SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES ✴︎

As Asra gets ready to leave again, Anatole handles two unexpected guests: one will alter his future plans, and the other will give him a headache. 2.7k words. For Anatole’s apprentice timeline, compliant with all the routes.

You can read the rest of Anatole’s apprentice timeline series here.

Asra was leaving. Again. 

Anatole wasn’t thrilled about it, but him and Asra had had this conversation several times and Anatole trusted his friend and teacher enough to not enquire any further — or to enquire behind his back. He said he had his reasons, and Anatole would respect that. Besides, it’s not as if he minded being alone. Maybe he had at the beginning of his recovery, when the City was still too unknown and disorienting, too much happening in it at all times, Anatole himself barely there.

He had read somewhere that all traumatic injuries which resulted in memory loss were different. Annoying as they were, he was better at handling the by-products of whatever the hell it was that had happened to him. Somewhat. He wanted to think he was, that even though the migraines still lingered, he could handle the shop, himself, his magic (magic that had begun advancing towards places and forms Asra could only guide him towards, not teach him). He just wanted to be good enough at it all, and he supposed he’d have no one he’d felt comfortable asking for help to if Asra wasn’t around.

He sighed. it didn’t matter, well, it did, but he’d be able to handle it. He was sure Antu would gladly help.

“I’ll miss you.”

“You better miss me, Asra Alnazar. Though, must you really leave tonight?

“In the dead of a moonless night. The right time for the beginning of a journey.”

Anatole frowned; Asra was full of shit. “Is that a ritual thing? Or is it a poetic licence thing?”

The magician didn’t reply, changing the topic instead like he always did when Anatole guessed too close to the truth about things Asra did not have the means to explain to his pupil. Instead he gave him his tarot deck.

Anatole can’t remember a time Asra’s separated from it. Normally, when Asra’s gone and Anatole had to a do a reading he used his own deck. It used to belong to his aunt, his connection to it jumping to his tongue before Asra could ask him if he knew, or remembered, whom it had previously belonged to. His cards were different from Asra’s — they were quiet, they gave him analytical and interpretational leeway. Asra’s were... too alive.

He took the Deck as Asra handed it to him, looking at the cards. “You trust me with your deck?”

“I do, Nana, I’d trust you with anything.”

Anatole decided to ignore the charged nature of his words. He had discovered within the last six months he was often able to call for the intention behind people’s words, how they were feeling in the moment, or if they were being dishonest. While most of the time it was useful, sometimes it was wildly disconcerting, others exhausting, or inconvenient. Like right now.

He was witness to the in-between-the-lines of communication whether he wanted or not, being too much information to handle at times. When it was too much, it could feel from invading someone's privacy to being overstimulated.

Instead of asking Asra if he had done that on purpose, he said: “You think I’m ready to use it?”

“You know I can’t answer that for you.” 

“I did it again, didn’t I?”

“It’s okay to need validation, Nana.”

Anatole knew that, in theory. Though he couldn’t deny Asra was right: he knew he still needed confirmation that he was doing things correctly, that he was doing a good job, that his efforts were meriting. Even when he had something completely figured out. Out of all the things Asra had thought Anatole would carry back from the dead, his tendency to overcompensate wasn’t one he’d accounted for.

Alright, that was a lie, he hadn’t accounted for Anatole’s entire personality to barrel through death to assert itself over the blank canvas of whom he had come back as. He should’ve foreseen Anatole to manage the impossible, twice. 

“Do you think you’re ready?” Now it wasn’t the time to allow his anxieties to govern over his capacities. Breathing steadily twice, he managed to give Asra the debonair smile with an inquiring, raised eyebrow the magician adored to see on his face. He hated not knowing, and the only way of knowing was to ask.

Asra found himself smiling too. “Why don’t we ask the cards?” 

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ 

As Asra said his last goodbyes, a knock on the door interrupting them both, Anatole thought he ought to ask where had he gotten his feathered hat. Another time.

Anatole wasn’t surprised Asra had already left when he went to the front of the shop to get the door, having slipped he High Priestess and her foreboding messages back into the deck. She’d have to wait for whomever had decided ‘after-hours’ wasn’t a real shop-keeping concept. Customers, Anatole swore. He really couldn’t blame Asra for leaving now. He himself hated being delayed or interrupted when he was focusing on something, and while Asra wasn’t quite the same (or didn’t have the same reasons) it was the same outcome. 

After-hours was the time he spent on himself and tonight he wanted to tackle his Zadithi. He had only just began picking it up again.

Again? That couldn’t be right.

A second, more impatient knock pulled him out of his thoughts. Anatole lunged forward to open the door, only to be met with Countess Satrinava, out of all people. He didn’t even know their shop had reached the Palace’s radar. For some reason he couldn’t pinpoint right then, he didn’t know if he liked it.

“Countess. Welcome to Moonstone & Jasmine how may I help—”

“Please,” she said, paying him little mind, “you must read the cards for me.”

Like he had said before, customers.

However, Anatole didn’t need to pick up on her words to notice the Countess was genuinely troubled by something, her comment on sleepless nights confirming his suspicion. So he decided to give her the benefit of doubt, instead of pinpointing the hour she decided to come at as a display of nobility’s entitlement.

The talk about his reputation was what shocked him the most, however. The temptation to dismiss her words as hyperbole was strong, but she sounded  too honest — a by-product of her state of necessity, Anatole thought, people tended to be worse at lying under pressure (How did he know that?).

When the Countess mentioned Anatole looked different in a dream she had, he speaks as if something had possessed him, having no idea he would speak until he did. “Do you possess any sort of clairvoyance, your Highness? I have a cousin who—”

He stopped as a throb made its way through the back of his head. As far as he knew, he didn’t have any family, he didn’t have anyone but Asra and a dead Aunt, but saying he had a cousin felt right in a way he couldn’t ignore. He had never been very good at lying to himself. Once he knew something was true, it cemented itself in his head, unshakable. He preferred it that way: falsehoods, even if lasting, crumbled. When you built with what was true, you built steady.

This felt like the truth, but was it? Was it a wish, or was it a lost piece of whomever he had been before? In the before he couldn’t remember?

Pushing his thoughts away, he said: “Excuse me, Countess. I forgot myself.”

“No matter. I come with a proposal.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Come to the Palace, and be my guest for a short while. You will be afforded every luxury, of course. I ask only that you bring your skill… and the Arcana.”

His first thought was ‘no’. His second, ‘absolutely not’. He had things! Plans! The only luxury he wanted right now was to be allowed to fill his after work hours as he saw fit. But this was a customer. They could use the money for supplies, and something told him — something he couldn’t pay any attention to right now, something inside of him he could only trust — the Countess was indeed in trouble. The kind of toruble where if he refused to help right now, he’d end up in the Palace anyway.

Sometimes it is better to cooperate with the universe; he had heard that somewhere, or perhaps from someone he couldn’t remember. Perhaps he read it. One way or another, now was not the time to mourn his plans.

“It’ll be an honour.”

“I will alert the guards to expect you tomorrow, but before that...”

Of course, she had come with a tarot inquiry, so Anatole redirected her to the backroom where readings and private consultations were held, finding himself face to face with Asra’s cards again.

He’d have to get used to their liveliness, sooner or latter. Unlike his own card, these spoke to you completely at random, compelling you to deliver their message, so you never knew if you were doing the reading or if the cards themselves were. Anatole didn’t love it, if he was honest. Nothing to do with the cards, though. It had everything to do with having asked Asra why do his cards work like they do, and Asra not giving him an answer which had fully made sense to him. 

He didn’t know what to make of the Countess as she talked to him about other times she had had her fortune read. His headache had moved from the back of his head to his temples. Familiar wasn’t the word for it, but she felt trustworthy, in an inconsequential sense. Like a coworker with good intentions but not enough turn out for his liking. He saw her out, opening the door for her, after her reading was done, still having not the faintest idea where on earth did he get such an impression from the Countess. He must’ve been reading too much, that was certainly it — too much politics before bed made Anatole a very imaginative man. 

As Countess Satrinava left, Anatole wondered if he should’ve told her anything about fees, at least as a joke. He wasn’t sure she’d appreciate the joke. 

He decided to brew something for his headache, worrying it might grow too big to sleep. Potions and brews had never been his strongest fort. He always needed to spend extra attention on them and their instructions, coming less organically than other forms of magic. Like languages. Languages were easy, even if messy sometimes. He still remembered one day, years ago, when he could speak nothing but a gibberish mess of Balkovian, Vesuvian and a very distant variation of Nopali. 

Still, it would keep his mind away from all the reputation talk the Countess had brought with her. He wanted to be convinced she must’ve been thinking about his aunt — Paris, that’s all Asra had told him — but Paris had been dead for even before his accident, so maybe... He took a breath, he was overthinking his way into a migraine again so he went back to his brew. 

He was missing enough of one ingredient, which meant he had to go to the Shop’s storage quarter, accessible only from outside and through the backdoor. As if anticipating his need, Antupillán, his familiar, fetched the keys for him and climbed onto his shoulder as Anatole made his way outside, looking for the sweet relief of willow tree bark. A victory which came at the price of getting his storage key stuck, fumbling for five minutes to unstuck it so he could go back inside. 

With all ingredients in front of him he could finally make himself a headache remedy. 

“Strange hours for a shop to keep,” said a muffled voice coming from somewhere, interrupting him.

If he got mugged, in his own house, he swore to everything he thought mattered in this world he’d spend the rest of his life finding whomever had come into his shop and making their lives miserable. He was sure no one had been around when he went retrieve the willow bark, Antu would’ve told him if there was someone. He was sure he had locked that door the moment he came in.

The thought that someone could’ve been staying in his own house, waiting for the right moment to strike made him sick, but mostly, angry. He knew he had a dagger somewhere in one of the drawers, if magic was not enough.

“Whomever it is, come out of where you are, and tell me what you want.”

“Behind you.” Anatole jumped back, giving himself more distance between this person, levelling a look to the red glasses the mask had for eye-sockets.

“So this is the witch’s lair… and who might you be?”

“Who’s asking?” He tried to sound as surefooted as possible, but the eye sockets of the mask were so vividly red, like a halo of auburn hair under the noon sun. His headache threatened to get stronger.

“I’m asking. I’d rather not do it again.”

The person lifted their hand, Anatole’s brain springing into action as it remembered the dagger was in the third drawer to the left. He lunged forward, he was quick with his feet he could just grab the dagger and protect himself with a shield if he— 

Instead of grabbing him, the stranger threw the mask to the floor. 

The flash of pain between his eyes, right where his nose begins was so intense it burned, making him wince. He patted the front table of the shop to hold onto something, fearing he will lose his balance and fall. He’s— he’s— he swears there’s a name on the tip of his tongue.

“As I suspected, shock, horror—”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s etched on your face! The gruesome reaction of facing the murderer himself. Fear not, I do not care about you, I only want information, so if you stop fooling around and tell me where is the witch.”

“The whomst?”

The man blinked, confused for a flash before he scowled again.

“Where is the witch?”

Something inside Anatole clicked. He was too tired to deal with any of this. If the intruder wanted to attack him, he would’ve done so already.

“Listen,” he said, barking back at this person who had interrupted his evening. “I have a migraine right now, so I will need you to be a little more specific. Secondly, you come into my shop, demanding things without exaplanation, manifesting behind me, and I do have to tell you, even with a migraine, I’m probably better with sharp things than you are so stand back and give me a bloody fucking second, alright?”

It wasn’t a lie. Anatole had always been good with blades. It worried Asra, for a reason he had never explained, but Anatole didn’t think it was a problem.

“You know, if you’re really feeling ill, I’m a medically trained professional—”

“Did you seriously just offer me medical help after you tried to intimidate me for information.”

“I—I, look you don’t look well… wait, did it work? Are you telling me where he is?”

“What? No, no it didn’t. There’s a lot of people who go by ‘he’ this City.”

“Not even the murderer part worked?”

Anatole shot him a death glare that made his uninvited guest look away. After finally retrieving that damn dagger, which he did just in case, he set himself to prepare his migraine remedy.

“You’re the guy who’s wanted for murdering the former Count, right?” He asked as he worked.

“Yes?”

“Wasn’t the guy a bit of an incompetent despot? Created a sanitary emergency and ran the city’s coffers dry? I’m neither of those things, nor I plan to rat you out before you try that line of intimidation, because I’m not a snitch. So please, if you could be specific.”

The intruder did not reply, instead he looked at Anatole like he was the weirdest person he had ever met. He shook himself from it. “The witch, I’m looking for him and I know he lives here...”

“Since you have no clue who I am, I will reckon you’re talking about Asra. He left. Don’t know when he’s coming back, don’t know where he went.”

“But if you don’t know, and I don’t know… why don’t you ask your magic cards?”

God, this man didn’t give up. Normally, Anatole would appreciate that, give him at least some credit as an interesting enemy to run into in the night, but right now? Right now he wanted him to go away. “Because the shop is closed.”

“That’s what the backroom there is for, right? Look, I’m already inside.”

Despite himself, Anatole couldn’t find it in himself to say no, so with a hesitant nod, he left his conoction on the counter and showed his night-time guest to the backroom, but he insisted on Anatole going first. He did, as he didn’t have time for plesantries, though he had to admit, for someone who just broke into his home, he was being very polite.

As he dropped himself into the reading chair, Antu climbed onto Anatole’s lap, sitting there, a comforting presence amid his very annoying evening. He had been his constant companion for almost two years. Antu came in one day unannounced and hadn’t left Anatole’s side since.

“Is that a Raccoon?” The stranger asked, with eyes wide open as he tried to pet him. Antu bit the air in front of him before he could come too close. 

Not forgiven yet, Antu said at the stranger, though only Anatole could listen. 

Anatole smiled to himself, making a mental note to give him extra grapes later. “His name is Antupillán.”

To Anatole’s surprise, the stranger pronounced the name perfectly. “What does it mean?”

“Not many people pronounce that correctly, look at you. People accent it wrong,” he paused, in all honesty Anatole didn’t know what it meant. Yet, once more, he found himself speaking without knowing what he was about to say. “A ‘pillán’ is a spirit, an embodiment. Antu means sun in Mapudungún, so Antupillán is the spirit of the sun.”

Anatole felt his stomach drop as he awaited for the migraine that would inevitably blotch his vision with black spots. However, it never came, the misplaced information settling into him like a homecoming he was not yet able to process.

As Anatole shuffled the deck, the stranger looked friendly, almost awkward in an endearing way. 

“Go on. No need to be shy.”

“Says the man who refuses to give out his name. I need to know it for the ‘magic card reading’, you know?”

“Julian, you can call me Julian,” he said after some stammering and a scarlet blush on his cheeks. His eyes followed his movements as closely as they could, a nervous anticipation to them.

Anatole pulled Death. It was, in Asra’s deck, a particularly quiet card. The horse skull was quiet like someone who opened their mouth to speak, but couldn’t articulate any sound. He wondered if the card in his own Deck — Anatole’s Death major arcana was a moth person holding a mask and a scythe — could hold any answers, other than white noise. It was cheating, technically, but Julian called them ‘magic cards’, Anatole didn’t think he’d mind.

Before he could do anything, Julian laughed. “Death? That means nothing to me. Death cast her gaze upon this wretch and turned away! She has no interest in an abomination like me.”

"What? Julian this isn’t how—”

He stood up abruptly, his mouth seeming to run on automatic pilotwith fatalistic statements and Julian’s hunch that Asra would come back. Which he would, Anatole knew he would. Asra always came back.

Instead of Julian’s advice about seeking him out when Asra did come back, for ‘Anatole’s own good’, whatever that could mean from a fucking stranger, he thought he ought to have accepted the medical help. Perhaps that way, Julian would’ve left earlier and his headache would’ve been dealt with.

Later, as he laid in bed drifting to sleep, he thought Asra left that day not because it was best for a journey, but because he somehowknew all of this would happen and he didn’t want to deal with any of it. 

[the-real-doggymcdogface]

//Hi all! Cerberus has lent me his DevilPad for un-Cerberus-related activity. Don't worry. I gave him extra treats.

I participated in the Obey Me Secret Santa this year, and since my other OM accounts on social media are NSFW, I needed a safe place to post it.

This is for you, @boxwel! I hope I did your request justice.

Deep Freeze

Mammon/MC

Lucifer/MC

Angst, SFW

Ever-so-slightly PG-13? Maybe?

:read more:

Mammon watched you with a small smile, amused at how delighted you were by the snow. You looked so cute all bundled up in your coat and hat, grin as bright and sparkling as the sunlight glittering in the snow. He started to get up from where he was perched on a stump when he saw you fall flat on your face, breaking into laughter instead when you sat up and howled with laughter at your own clumsiness. This trip to the human world had been a fantastic suggestion. He hadn’t seen you look so carefree and exhilarated in quite some time.

Letting your good humor pull him in, he began walking toward you, intent on joining you in your snowball fight against his brothers. Before he got close enough for you to see, Lucifer appeared, seemingly from nowhere. Extending his hand to you, he smoothly pulled you up and into his arms, murmuring something with a small, soft smile. Mammon had thought your face was red from the cold but it was nothing compared to the blush that bloomed on your cheeks with a shy little grin at whatever Lucifer had whispered in your ear. Watching as you grasped his brother’s coat to stretch up and meet his kiss caused an ache in his chest that Mammon hadn’t felt in millennia. 

Turning away, he swiftly made his escape on silent feet. He felt nauseous at the sight he’d just witnessed. Seeing Lucifer in such a soft moment left him feeling dirty somehow, but that wasn’t what was making him breathless. He should have known you’d choose his brother. Perfect, smooth-talking Lucifer, always ready with his low voice and poetic words, carefully curated to get exactly the reaction he wanted. Of course you’d choose him over the hyperactive, immature Avatar of Greed. Mammon knew he was exactly the opposite in every way. There was nothing suave about him; he tripped over his words, overwhelmed by his feelings for you and pushing you away instead.

He knelt in the snow desperately gasping for air. Somehow this managed to feel like losing Lilith again, in a completely new way. He had grieved his sister, knowing he would never see her again. But you… you were right there. He’d have to see you every day, watch the soft smiles and lovesick looks directed at his brother when it should have been him. The very thought of it left an unbearably heavy weight in his chest. He sniffed, trying to hold back the tears burning his eyes. His jeans were uncomfortably cold and wet from kneeling in the snow, but he couldn’t seem to care. 

The roar in his head seemed to calm just in time for him to hear the soft shuffle of feet in the snow. Desperate to hide his heartbreak, he quickly wiped some snow on his face. Hopefully, that would explain the evidence of his tears. His heart dropped just that much more when he heard your voice behind him.

“Mammoney?”

Please don’t call me that. Don’t use endearments when you’ll never be mine, he thought.

“What are you doing here all alone, Mammon?”  Of course Lucifer would be with you. He just couldn’t catch a break, could he?

“Thinkin’.”

“That’s a new endeavor for you. How is it working out? Have you hurt yourself yet?”

Mammon plastered a smile on his face and turned around just in time to see you gently smack Lucifer’s chest with the back of your hand.

“Be nice, Lucifer. Mammon isn’t stupid, no matter what you say.”

His heart swelled at your defense of him, but he simply couldn’t agree. Clearly, he was the biggest idiot of them all to fall in love with you, let alone hope you could love him back. Still, he forced out a cocky laugh. “That’s right, human. They don’t call me the GREAT Mammon for nothing, ya know!”

“Mammon, literally no one calls you that,” muttered Lucifer.

“Shows what you know,” he quipped back. His brother merely rolled his eyes at him. “So, what are you two doing here? Looking for a bit of ‘alone time’?” He made sure to throw in a leer to make his meaning clear. If they thought he was joking, maybe they wouldn’t see his shattered heart. The flush on both of your faces told him he’d hit the nail on the head, and he suddenly wanted to be sick.

“I missed you Mammoney. I was just trying to find you,” came your quiet voice. 

“Ah, well, you found me! I’m just fine, as you can see. So I’ll just leave you two alone.” He noticed your hand reach for him as he turned on his heel and darted away as casually as he could, but he simply pretended he’d hadn’t seen. You’d just straight up lied to his face. Your musical voice followed him, calling him back to you. He felt like an ass, but he couldn’t face you just then. Maybe not for 100 years. Maybe never. All he knew was that he needed to get away. He turned in the direction of his brothers just in time to see Lucifer pulling you the opposite way, behind a small copse of trees. He was lost in his misery as he walked, causing him to be completely surprised when a snowball exploded on his face.

“Haha yes!!!” Levi whooped triumphantly. “Once more my tactical genius has led me to a most satisfying victory! All hail King Leviathan!”

“Why do ya always talk so funny when you’re playin’ games, huh?” Mammon sputtered through the snow.

“I do it because it is the only proper way to celebrate defeating my foe!”

“I’ll show you foe,” growled Mammon, bending down to scoop up some snow and preparing to return fire. He lined up his shot, wound up his arm, and got beaned on the back of the head with a snowball just as he let go, missing Levi completely. 

“Direct hit! Wonderful shot, Satan!” crowed Asmo. He was sat on a large stone, refusing to get involved with the fight and risk ruining his expensive coat, so he claimed. When Mammon turned to his assailant, Satan was bowing to his audience of one.

“Thank you, Asmo. But it isn’t hard to miss a head that big.”

Asmo’s gleeful shout of laughter was cut short by Mammon’s snowball. “I’m a pretty good shot when I’m not bein’ sabotaged ya know! And ya aren’t even movin’!”

His younger brother’s beautiful face was marred with fury, but Mammon had accomplished his goal and made Asmo get involved in the game. For a short, blissful time, his heartache was a dull throb as he and his brothers chased each other around, pelting one another with snowball after snowball. Their shouts of laughter and mock anger filled the little area of the forest they’d trekked to and for a moment Mammon felt like life was normal. Until you and Lucifer rejoined the group with messy hair and disheveled clothing.

“Oh ho! Having fun in the snow, I see! How positively naughty of you!” teased Asmo.

“That’s disgusting,” muttered Belphie. “No one wants to think of Lucifer that way.”

“Oh I do it often,” purred the Avatar of Lust.

“If you could please cease this inane conversation, we should probably head back to the cabin.” Lucifer sighed.

The group set out for their warm shelter while Mammon silently seethed at the sight of you and Lucifer walking with your arms casually slung around each other. Your sweet laughter floated back to him, making his heart clench. He had a feeling this pain was going to get worse before it got better, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to hide it. You would try to comfort him if you found out, which would be the very last thing he would want when you were out of reach. Lucifer would reach as yet unheard-of levels of smugness that Mammon was sure would mean the two of them coming to blows. As the cabin came into view, you fell back to walk with him.

“What’s wrong, Mammoney? You’re awfully quiet, and that concerns me.”

“It shouldn’t, it’s a nice change of pace and we don’t want to ruin it!” snapped Belphie.

Mammon felt his face burning before he curtly replied, “It’s fine. I’m just tired.”

“Poor thing. Maybe you should take a nap before dinner? You can use my room, it’s the quietest.”

He couldn’t help the small smile that graced his features. You were always so sweet, so selfless. Too good for him, to be sure. “Thanks, maybe I will.” 

 You reached down and gave his hand a squeeze before heading back to Lucifer’s side. As the 8 of you entered the cabin, there was a flurry of boots and coats being tossed around, and the stern voice of Lucifer reminding everyone to take care of their wet outerwear instead of simply throwing it in the corner. It proved to be the perfect distraction and allowed Mammon to sneak away unnoticed. Well, mostly unnoticed. You followed him to your room, concern still etched on your face.

“I promise I’m fine. I just need a little bit of rest, that’s all.” He said.

“If you’re sure…”

“Positive.”

“Okay, well I guess I’ll leave you to it. Have a good nap.”

“Thanks. Goodbye.”

A startled, slightly frightened expression crossed your face. “Goodbye? What does that mean?”

“Slip of the tongue. I meant to say good night.”

“Uh huh…”

He knew you didn’t believe him but he climbed into your bed and ignored the way you stared. After a moment you left, leaving him to enjoy being surrounded by your scent. Just for a little while, he told himself. He had no idea how long he’d been lying there before you came to check on him, but he quickly tried to look relaxed and deeply asleep. It must have worked since you silently snuck in and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek before tiptoeing back out. He heard you tell someone you were going to let him rest a while longer and soon the faint sounds of his brothers sitting down to dinner floated up to him. Perfect, he thought. Throwing the covers off, he left your room as quietly as you had, sneaking down the hall to the room he was sharing with Asmo. Fortunately, he hadn’t unpacked much so it was easier to get everything back into his duffel bag. He’d just leave his coat and boots behind. He might be uncomfortable, but he wouldn’t be particularly cold or in any danger the same way a human would if he traveled in regular clothes.

He dropped his bag from the window, waiting for a moment in case anyone had heard. The cacophony of voices and laughter continued without so much as a brief pause. He hadn’t known when he got here that having a room on the opposite side of the house than the kitchen would be so advantageous. At least he had that tiny bit of luck. He jumped out of the window, grateful that the snow was cushioning his landing a bit. It may be easier for him to jump from the second story without breaking bones than it would be for a human, but that didn’t mean it was pleasant. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he jogged towards the nearby town.

It wasn’t long before he heard you shouting his name from the cabin. The voices of his brothers followed shortly, but they quickly grew faint and faded away. He ached at the thought of you worrying about him, but he figured his brothers would be ecstatic to be without him. He knew they would help you forget about him, Lucifer especially. No one would miss the scummy idiot, right? Eventually, he came upon a highway and stuck out his thumb. One last thought of you passed through his mind, but he pushed it away so that he wouldn’t lose his nerve.

It wasn’t like he was leaving forever. He just needed to let his heart freeze first.